How can you help
the small huddle on your doorstep—
the commander; the priest who married you;
the women with their sad, drawn faces.
the only message you will get
from the pink, blistered mountains of Kabul
is the one that comes when you’re thinking about the dishes
or out buying oranges.
And how can you not see
the faces of these people
in every housewife or postman who pauses
at the edge of your driveway;
even a sack of letters, the dog sniffing in the street
doesn’t stop you from sleeping
with the bedside light on.