There’s a war raging in the Ukraine and I,
enjoying the safety of my tomato soup lunch,
notice the odd shape of a seldom used spoon,
the bowl narrower and deeper than other spoons
annoys my lips as it reaches and rests on my tongue.
Embarrassing.
What kind of man would pay such exquisite attention
to the feel of a spoon pressing his lips when soldiers are killing
and young men, old women, and babies are receiving death?
A month ago, Ukrainians were getting spoons from their own
kitchen drawers to eat a robust sausage soup or beet relish.
Now they are filling sandbags and making gasoline cocktails.
Now their attention is consumed by blatant blasts and fire,
screeching sirens, and the daily bread of fear and real hunger.
In war, gone is the glory of honed consciousness,
the sensitivity to subtlety,
the refinement of the senses,
and notice given to the variegated details of the world.
My vision of peace;
to live in a world where everyone has the unscathed leisure
to focus on the richness of small variations;
the distinctive shape of two different spoons,
the taste of yesterday’s soup eaten as leftovers today,
or the smell of a wet dog versus a dry dog.