I
sit here on a fine spring evening,
watching a slight breeze ease the leaves
in
the twilight. I am seeking the meaning
of
a world where a widow grieves
in
Falluja and I can sit here keyboarding,
wondering whether to have another bowl
of
ice cream, secure in my wondering,
whether the knee that causes me to howl
and slow my tennis game would get me caught
in
the cross-fire in Tikrit and how I might fare
as a non-violent gentle soul in a land wrought
in
hatred. Unwilling to consider or care
as
I relax and prepare for the next morn’s travel
how complicit I am in another land’s
travail.