A shadow at the kitchen table,
Spoon clinking in the dark.
War smells its way home;
Peace, a bandage on the wrong wound.
Soft footsteps of a cat burglar
In the antechamber of power.
History\'s thick thumb smudges,
Both the guilty and the saint.
Smoke rings rising from a gun barrel,
Kiss the lips of a silent God.
Pigeons roost on statues,
While the dead discuss the weather.
Irony, with a straight face,
Serves supper—bullets and bread.
The clock ticks in the rubble,
Impunity wears a wristwatch.
Gloved hands weave war and peace,
In a loom of broken bones.
A child\'s eyes, ripe with questions,
As the world counts its coins.