Editor’s Note: The following is a poem by Charles Curry written on the occasion of Advent but nevertheless relevant in this later season. There was a shooting yesterday. A man killed his wife. The police killed him. There was another the day before yesterday. Friends killed each other over some small matter. A few weeks ago an Army psychiatrist shot forty-three soldiers and civilians. Some young, some older. Some officers, some enlisted. Men, women. The shooter isn’t dead. Not yet. Each day the drones fly into Pakistan. Killer bees. Sometimes they hit their targets. Sometimes not. There is always collateral Read More …
