Breathing Mud Poem by Rashida Mack

Tapping fingers on wife and daughters hand,
lips puckered,
shade covered eyes,
simmering,
simmering,
with rage
yet described,
from parts unfulfilled,
and places forebode,
this pain is too like,
all the pain come before,
another death,
arrived to soon,
and what is it for?
another wound
festered green,
my boy is gone,
gone too soon,
and what can I do?
what can I do?
but sit here,
seething,
as I say a last farewell,
to a son,
I couldn't protect,
from the world?
Justice is coming,
justice is coming,
but looking back,
sitting here,
looking forward,
I ask:
'God Damn It! '
When?

*Goldenphant.com