We are all widows. We have all lost
one who labored away the cost
of living free and letting us be
our prior and emerging selves.
All who walk on rock between trees
have been and felt stalked by men with guns.
They hunt for meat and sport and greed
smelling and chasing us in their rich frenzies.
War is rare but not rare enough.
It burns through knowing and blows up trust.
It starts in capitals, ends up on farms
poor men dying to keep the priveleged from harm.
We are all veterans. We are all missing
the old stresses, replaced now by new
doubts about making it across the street
with our new feet still foreign and slow.
All of us, every star come down to earth,
each one underestimated yet worth
more than any number, any sorry price
more than a Bhudda, a Moses or Christ.
We are all organ-grinders on some corner with
a smile and a trick to keep ourselves warm
during storm of blowhards and sleet of lies
looking for a fire in some passer-by’s eyes.