Fields of unmade bread
burn in Donetsk.
A man, seventies,
sits in his arm chair, wheezes
from the cancer sacks
his lungs shrunken into.
His wife, also seventies,
sits on the couch, knitting.
Their daughter, fifties,
sits next to her mother. She wishes
she had learned to knit, too,
so she would have something
to do, to hold onto,
while waiting for the world to end.
