Megan Bakley

In Africa

I can hear the engines
of rusty trucks in the distance.
Individuals that surround me,
the ones left with strength,
run to the road in hope
of finding relief
from food in burlap bags.
The sun
is unforgiving to the skin
of those waiting.
Unraveling threads
cover black bodies,
bodies of bones
waiting hour upon hour
for sympathy.
A child lies near
his dead mother,
something he seems not to fully understand.
His sunken eyes of sadness tell me otherwise.