Talk of War, Talk of Peace
All day long, working in the cafe,
there's talk of war, talk of peace.
People we haven't seen in weeks
coming in to eat, to seek reassurance,
talking about the thirst for oil,
wondering about the draft, saying
bombing and wedding in the same sentence.
We commiserate and many advise
others to pray. Those who bring in
newspapers will leave them--smudged
photos of the latest explosion, fanned
across the table. After lunch, we gather
crumpled napkins along with faces of
kidnap victims and prisoners. We sort them--
one batch for the trash, the other
stacked and folded for the evening fire.
Snowfall low over the mountains.
I sweep the walk and polish windows.
I stamp the checks and count the cash.
I weigh out apricots, raisins and dates
arranging pound and half-pound bags
into perfect pyramids, ready for trade--
any shopkeeper, any one of ten thousand
days in any marketplace in the world.
It will be dark long before I get home.
