“Billions of blue blistering barnacles!”
said Captain Haddock from the rubbles of a house
in Kathmandu, where lived a family of four.
All faithful readers of the adventures of Tintin.
Their neighbors had a grandfather clock,
made of pure walnut, a John Ellicott knock-off;
its hourly chimes lulled children to sleep at night.
Now it sleeps with the remains of the children in the dust.
The airport was a happy place last week,
today, it’s filled with doctors and people wearing masks.
The baggage claim line seems never-ending.
Addresses, one meshed with another, lay outside.
Like a pyramid lacking geometry.
