Hitching a Ride

Like the smothered cries
of a soft, feathered dove
squashed with razor-sharp insensitivity,
I yearn for peace estranged.
In the bleak and terror-infested
womb-like caves of Afghanistan
huddles my long-abandoned hope
of a world no longer dependent
upon liquid gold, black as fresh asphalt.
The hopeful song
of an ice-cream truck in the distance -
a child's siren song, beckoning, luring,
the truck does not reach me.
I stand at the roadway, desolate and rejected,
a hitchhiker on the road to love
with no thumbs.
Cars pass, trucks pass, kids on bikes
leave me stranded and dusty.
Can I hitch a ride with you, bewitching Aphrodite?
Will you wash the dust from my worn-out boots?