Let him die, I said to myself as I passed.
In Columbia, thousands have died in a civil war that is 38 years old.
Palestine. The tanks roll in.
Suicide bombers blow themselves up inside crowded buildings.
    "Thanks for the sandwich, Mom. I’m going out now. I’m going to blow myself
    up inside a crowded shopping mall."
    "All right. Give me a kiss before you go. And be careful."
It’s good to wake up and have a cup of joe, smell fresh-cut grass, watch a Sox game on TV.
There is no war in my basement.
I can watch the game there and eat popcorn and chips. I will put my legs up, too.
Genocide. Conquest. Slaughter. Terrorism. War. Oppression. Maiming. Invasion.
If I may quote Emerson: "What causes these?"
I hit my brother once when I was young. I forget what for, but I remember the rage.
It over took me and I hit him when he wasn’t looking, square on the back.
A good hit, too. (But I was young!) I forget what happened after that.
    "Jim, I’m going to have to kill you because you have a much nicer car than I do.
    I’ll probably cut your head off, too."
Could I watch the game with Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden too?
    "Saddam, pass the popcorn, please."
    "There you go, Rich. Oh! Nice hit!"
    "Osama, a frosty while you’re up."
Or would they have other things to do?
What goes through the zebra’s mind as he’s knocked on his ass by the lion?
    "Damn. And I was gonna take my family to the watering hole tomorrow! Shit."
So remove the IV and don’t stop the bleeding.
Is there no time to enjoy a hamburger?
No.
Let him die.