In the Dream of Almost-Perfect-Peace,
you wave out the window to your enemy,
who looks up from his cup of coffee, the blue flicker
of morning news,
to cautiously wave back at you & smile.
There’s a strangely familiar scent in the air —
oranges? oleander? myrrh? —
just before the laser crosshairs home in on
the white towers of his city,
wiping him out in the screen’s green glare.
Yes, we are all brothers
under the well-oiled wheel of Empire,
& both feel the spear —
he, the shock of the sharp edge
piercing his innocent side,
& you, the shiver of the shaft vibrating back through
your equally innocent hand.