war machines fly low
over the suburbs,
fucking with the town.

there’s a twisted gratitude
for raw power like that—
a delicate insensitivity.
the human need for safety.

safety is a competition,
and to the winner comes survival,
but the truth is:
these birds kill.

it’s a careful chosen thoughtlessness—
knowing women and children die,
much like the ones god asked me to watch over

but they are marvelous things,
aren’t they? when they take flight.

-

you’re out there somewhere—staring up in the field,
while i’m home, sharing dinner with the family,
passing the salt,
trading one miracle for another,

and for that,
i won’t hear the calamity overhead,
see jet fuel burn crimson from the tailpipes,
or hear jimmy captivate a circle of young women from the halfway house, sitting in the grass,
and I won’t look into your eyes—
like war could ever be a sign.

and that’s okay,
for these are times of peace at home,
not war.

let’s savor that—

and find new rooms.