there is no war in our country
no landscapes leveled and pockmarked
by cannon fire, no neighborhoods bombed out
no streets held hostage by snipers
I tell him I am glad that he can see
the green and rosy side of the garden
but assure him that where poor folks live
air never clears of smoke, the city looks war-torn
not Sarajevo yet, not Berlin in late 1945
we do it in our own style, but broken
is just as broken, and dead is just as dead
he tells me everything is working fine
and if this isn’t heaven on earth yet
it will be after the next election
or the one after, we’ve almost got it right
I smile and go back to my poems
No comments:
Post a Comment