In polite society we hold doors open,
Say thanks and please, wear crisp
Suits when we drop bombs.
The pen is mightier than the sword—but not today.
When bombs explode, words turn to shrapnel
Like a lover’s demands left to the dead to obey,
A kiss carried off in death’s putrid satchel.
The cold light of winter filters through dusty windows,
Mixes with the buzzing of fluorescent lights.
I hear the slow shuffle of frayed jackets rustling,
Half-broken chairs straining under the weight
Of half-broken men and women and children, chipped
Tabletops holding like Atlas a world of Styrofoam
Cups and plates, plastic forks and knives,
Warm meals consumed by frigid bodies, minds, souls.
The arc of history is long, but it bends not toward justice
When bent by the powerful that say, “Just trust us.”
They cloak their lies in suits well pressed,
Cowards by injustice dressed.
The words are clear, o so clear!
Patriotism blaring from a bullhorn,
Justice promised in steel blindly shaped.
“The threat, the response,
The rule of law…” the President drones,
And the people listen, how they listen!
To his faultless monotone.
It is late and my mind should be drifting through the colorful abyss of deep sleep, yet tonight sleep will not come. I am like a hungry flower who dreams of bees so ardently that all thoughts of pollen and nectar disappear; the world for which I long has crumbled into a fine mist of cool air and gentle breezes.