War poem (5)

My attempts to be of help to refugees and renegades,

Fighters and flighters, wounded and needy, 

Hopefuls and desperates,

Have so far been futile, alas.

At a jam session in a whiskey bar last night

I met a young jazz musician

Who’d just picked up his sister from Kiev.

A silent, shy, dishwasher blonde girl

Holding her smartphone like a hand grenade.

She doesn’t speak English, he apologized.

Welcome to Amsterdam, I tried. (No smile.)

When I offered a round of drinks,

They gently albeit sternly declined.

Not once, I might add, but twice.

I guess this leaves me no other choice

Than to continue on the road not taken.

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