Careless Thinking Poem by Bernard Henrie

They shot a naked man howling in a barricaded house.
Neighbors said he harmed no one and expertly clipped
his lawn into the night like an emergency room doctor
putting in stitches on graveyard shift.

I wish we talked first, found a loin cloth to blow free
in South Chicago like father Gandhi in New Delhi.

But I mind my own business, box a roast beef sandwich
at the senior lunch and spend the evening in my bathrobe,
my wasp thin computer overheated on my lap.

Letters to the Tribune, an ode to the TV sets
of my apartment complex never switched off and faithful
as a lighthouse, a letter to my dead wife, her face full
rupees, the stern look her eyes gave out and only sixteen
years old.

Summer tans me to the color of an Indian Sepoy.
I drink Bigelow teas while smoking Churchman No 1
cigarettes.

I am in the rag trade with other Indian Jews like myself,
my secondhand racks full of unwanted suits for men.
I observe Passover from a window of the 93 bus.

Oh naked man, howling man shot dead I mourn
your emerald passage and ask both India and Pakistan
to hold their fire for a single rotation of the moon.