My city is under attack.
There are no enemies in sight to be seen.
Chimneys are still stacked, brick on brick.
Roofs are intact. All the walls are upright.
Lawns are mowed and weeds are pulled.
Newspapers are retrieved from driveways each morning
and mail from the mailboxes each mid-afternoon.
Cars drive down well paved streets.
The garbage is picked up every Tuesday.
Water runs in through copper pipes,
waste runs out through sewer pipes,
electricity hums in the power lines,
news flows in cables underground.
Everything is normal, just the way we like it,
just what we are used to, just what we prefer.
Inside the hanger of my skull
a squadron of opinions is ready to fly.
Inside the port of my neighbor’s skull
a sentimental armada waits for a signal.
Battles strain to be fought,
skirmishes restrained by a smile.
The strategy in my city is polite disregard.
We do not discuss differences
What is the problem?
How is it to be solved?
Bumper stickers announce what we believe.
At the ballot box we unleash our differences.