When diplomacy fails.

I should have hung a sign around myself today that said "Do not engage." I am worked up. And my father, who is my political doppleganger, is also worked up.

So today, rather than write anything, I want to share something I've written in the past:


For us, father

politics are hand grenades.
Words cut like bombs
and strategic air strikes
are far more damaging
than we'd like.

It's not that we disagree
that is so hard to take.
So alike are we
that we can't understand
how the other would ever
don our opposer's uniform.

I'm guessing
these wars
might just be avoidable.

Whatever we do,
we will speak of the plains
but not the farmers,
the country,
not the president,
the news,
not the judgement.

For now our fingers
poised away from the pins:
paternalistic head-patting,
youthful arrogance and distrust.

For the next few years
we will stare at each other
over the demilitarized zone
of talk of your granddaughter,
my new home,
the weather,
busying our hands and minds
with iced tea or porch swings
instead of the smooth cool metal
between everything
and nothing.