the buck starts here

i remember the eyes of children
strung out on wires
i remember the thighs of mothers
feeding the fires
i remember the sighs of fathers
gathering the bones of their families in hessian sacks
stumbling through the graveyards of europe
paying passage to the promised land
with their wits and their mouths and their memories
with barely a dollar to rub together
for a cup of cold comfort coffee
because the buck starts here

Russell J Turner – March 2009