1. (in the thick)
Once an argument could cut
like a two-edged sword. But
that’s old hat. The headgear
now is helmets. And arguments
cut like shrapnel, every way.
2. (in the city)
I like it that my map
talks to me in a gentle
voice while I drive. Not
like we fallible persons
at all. When I lose
direction, she walks me
back. Recalculates
calm as I swear and
cringe into another
lane to turn around.
3. (in the boonies)
I send nurses now
to find my father
on the farm he so
doesn’t want to leave.
“The GPS,” I warn,
“won’t find it. And
the road signs have
all been shot.” That’s
just the beginning
of an explanation.
4. (in the hat trick)
I strap on my Kevlar,
wishing for a newer
model. I strap on my
sword, knowing it
can never cut enough
ways. When the map
stops speaking; when
every weapon fails;
then, sometimes, the
sharp edges rest,
and the old aches
allow a deep breath.
This content is cross-posted on the UU Collective, a Patheos blog.
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