Many Asked Me Not to Forget Them

Where do you keep all these people? The shoemaker with his rumpled cough. The man who twisted straws into brooms. My teacher, oh my teacher. I will always cry when I think of my teacher. The olive farmer who lost every inch of ground, every tree, who sat with head in his hands in his son's living room for years after. I tucked them into my drawer with cuff links and bow ties. Touched them each evening before I slept. Wished them happiness and peace. Peace in the heart. No wonder we all got heart trouble. But justice never smiled on us. Why didn't it? I tried to get Americans to think of them. But they were too involved with their own affairs to imagine ours. And you can't blame them, really. How much do I think of Africa? I always did feel sad in the back of my mind for places I didn't have enough energy to worry about.