A bad omen--when
the war started, I slept
fitfully, my first night
ever in this thin-walled
renter's house (not too
cozy in the homeland),
so I sat a candle
in protest
on the window pane,
a small fire hazard
soon snuffed
but with me still.
I lit a candle, gentle act,
or just jaded, so feeble as
resistance. Too tired
for tilting at windmills,
too bushed for bullhorns
and banners, I thought,
recalling Desert Storm,
"Here we go--déjà vu."
Ha! Midlife naïveté--
assuming foolishly
I knew the whole
(short) story,
never suspecting
that history
passes edicts
unheard, unseen
like a secret tribunal
more brutal even
than '91's missiles
or glitz.
Life goes on, but
this war sticks
like a thick fog
or a guilty conscience
as we witness
with glib numbness
a birth or a passing,
a nephew's enlistment,
the publication
of a mildly pleasing
poem for peace.
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