Pen-Pals

Starting out last Winter,
I began to write every week.
To a young boy in Iraq,
Who I was told was named Afeek.

I told him who I was,
And what I liked to do.
In a little less than a week,
He sent me a letter, too.

He was very funny and nice,
And soon became my friend.
Every week I'd get a letter,
And then write one to send.

Every day he'd play soccer,
Starting promptly at noon.
I wondered what life was like,
In his small city of Mamoon.

He always made me laugh,
And made good days out of bad.
It was like he knew just what to say,
Whenever I was down or feeling sad.

Afeek was a kid like me,
Who was trying to live and have fun.
We both liked girls and candy,
As well as an early morning run.

But one Friday after school,
I did not receive his letter.
I thought it would come tomorrow,
But I didn't know any better.

Early Saturday morning I sat,
Wondering if I should write him back.
When my dad walked in the kitchen,
And asked if I'd heard about the attack.

"The bombings in Iraq", he said,
In a tone that made him sound thrilled.
"Some city of Mamoon", he said,
"Forty injured and eighty killed".

Suffice to say I never heard,
From Afeek or his family again.
I wonder what our country's doing,
Going around killing all my friends.

The President speaks in a serious tone,
Spouting out fanciful diction.
It's just a shame Afeek was real,
And not a work of Fiction.