sitting at a red light
twenty-one years after lennon’s murder
with the radio on and
the rain falling like a memory of itself
and i am not lost but in exile
i am the father
my own father never was and
my hands are cold
i want power but have
only words
and my list of grievances grows
and the war drags on
and i’ve been told that not every
slaughter is a crime
i’ve been lectured on the evils
of money
but never by those who have it
have slept on drunken floors
with nameless women while
the raped wrote their own versions
of history and i have never been a
believer in stories with morals
i am sorry for the weak
and the starving
for whatever good it does but
i am not a brave man
i will drive home and
kiss my wife
will read to my son then
put him to bed
with the knowledge that he is loved
not every failure i fear
is my own
