War more, forever more.
Politicians sitting on the sidelines
have no qualms about sending people’s
sons and daughters to fight
in a war of their creation.
Sandra and I talked about it over coffee
in a crowded Yakima cafe.
We catch up over lost time,
but the only thing we have in common
is that our brothers’ lives were changed for the worse.
A genocide to slay tortured souls
creeps into plain sight.
A razorblade deconstructs thoughts
without a cost to pay for your mistakes.
My brother and Sandra’s brother returned
from the war, and we helped them,
but the politicians who sent them
did nothing for them.
I spotted my brother’s rent.
But I can’t afford the weight of his guilt.
I developed the habit of steering clear of my misery,
but the city lights hovering beneath the moonlight
define shadows over the horizon,
telling me I’m more than just my reflection.
I sip more coffee, and I see gifts in the eyes
of everyone that I study on crowded sidewalks.
Sandra and I observed the faces of passersby,
and we concluded that we were all the same.
Capable of evil, but praying for good.
And war isn’t for the wealthy;
it’s for the destitute to settle.
Our empathy grew, and we realized
we’d make a great couple