Old friend, we’ve sat many nights on this worn
wooden swing under magisterial moons
arguing politics, history, philosophy, theology,
shouting, “Hippy! Terrorist! Fascist! Dictator!”
I see white crosses with floral wreaths in cemeteries,
gutted tanks, half legged young men with blank stares,
starving children, flies attacking their shrunken faces
You glorify the “rocket’s red glare,” complain of welfare
moms, spoiled brats, homos, lesbos, tattooed weirdos, coddled
addicts, rebellious protesters trashing stores and monuments
It is such a cool placid night with the stars at their best
For once, let’s just lean back in the breeze and listen
to the creaking of rusty chains
A solution may come to us, and if not,
we can sit here again tomorrow evening
in our rumpled windbreakers and imagine
a world that might have been