We feel no need to hold them,
give them hope for disfigured shapes,
struggles to walk, see, hear, feed,
clean themselves, for arms to hold them
when they cry out
They are not our children
They are faraway children, grandchildren,
of The Bomb, Agent Orange, land mines,
necessary casualties of legacies we showered
on their ancestors, deposited in their genes,
by reckless disregard
They are brandished in uncomfortable photos,
seen in junk mail, disruptive commercials,
telephone calls for charity scams
We have two oceans, rivers,
mountain ranges, missile shields,
young volunteer soldiers to carry out
our wars of the abstract, on television,
in sci-fi movies, on cell phones
at thumb’s reach, without stench,
searing heat, below freezing days,
nights without light
Guilt is not in our vocabulary
Their grandfathers, their uncles,
started it