The boy was asking for the way
To get to school that April day—
He’d knocked on several doors before
He came to Mr. Zeigler’s door.
The door swung open. Zeigler held
A shotgun, and he shot and shelled;
The boy—fourteen—lest he be dead
Before his fifteenth birthday, fled.
A court of law found Zeigler guilty—
“Intent to harm” no verdict filthy—
Though he was egged on by his wife.
By heaven’s grace he took no life.
What kind of rage builds in a man
That he’ll shoot a pedestrian
(And boy at that) who does not threaten?
How one lone boy be so upsetting?
We see today a similar
Occasion building—from afar
Asylum seekers come, and seek
Protection, help, for they are meek.
What kind of rage prepares to shoot
The innocents come not to loot
But begging sweet assistance, mercy,
And why should they be met so fiercely?
The soldiers gather at the border
Authorized—charged—with keeping order;
Invective rises and, unstilled,
Must anger see somebody killed?
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