Sesame Street

Running my fingernail

along the valley

of beige corduroys,

I wait for my programme.

On the black and white screen

men in hats like bowls

jump out of landing helicopters

with backpacks and guns.

Pulling my thumb

up the furred ridges 

making light nap dark,

I try not to watch.

Houses smoke and burn,

thick gas fills the air,

a girl runs barefoot, screaming,

her back is on fire.

Jumping up,

escaping outside,

I too run barefoot,

afraid of helicopters.

Neither of us will see

Sesame Street today.