Shepherds

Night.
The sheep huddled against this big rock.
Jake keeps watch while I wrestle with sleep:
—wool prices down, third year
—owner talks of selling out
—Jake and me—Where do we go?
—Martha’s carrying our fifth child
—rumors that Herod’s at it again,
—this time killing babies.
—Same old story:
the Empire trades in fear.
Where can we run?
Like papa says, “I hate being poor.”

Pitch black.
Then a light out of the sky.
Am I asleep already?
I hear voices.
A rumor, they say:
             A refugee couple living in a box
                            in Bethlehem.
             Had a baby. Screaming. Cold. Hungry.
The voices are singing,
             “All will be well,"
              All will be well.”
Like papa says, “Dreaming is the only
             hope poor folks have.”