That Ukrainian grandfather…

That grandfather with the furrowed-face and the sleep-deprived eyes that speak of his long bouts of weeping,

that grandfather dragging himself through the rubble left by the blown-up bridge, on his way to the railway station promising escape,

could be me.

It’s not me but his gaze won’t leave me.

It’s questioning me, ‘What will you be doing for me?’

His face, his question, bites into my soul and I know that from today, I won’t be living my life as usual.

Should I be volunteering for the modern-day version of the International Brigades that fought the fascists in Spain?

Clearly, I cannot do that. Then what?

The piping hot solidarity is upshooting my attention into attention as a discipline.

Am I able to go on living as if I was on the battlefield

and my mates’ lives depended on the precision

of my moment-to-moment attention to stay on purpose?

I bow to this Ukrainian grandfather on the run,

teacher for my attention with a purpose.