There's civil war in Sudan. This is nothing new.
Aid workers are caught in the middle again.
One kidnapped, another escaped
by hiding for days in an abandoned house.
Am I naive to think
they are not the enemy? Trying to help.
Binding up the wounds, feeding
the famine-stricken.

This poem should have a point.
I'll tell you what.
When I think of a point
to war, to famine,
to aid workers kidnapped or forced
into hiding,
when I can think of a point to all this,
I'll write another poem. I'll write a thousand.
Right now, I'm blank.