Glasses clashed for kinship,
but I suppose she was used to war.
She sat alone in a leather chair
in the far back.
Her back was flat and diagonal.
I wondered if her mind was, too.
Black beams darted from her eyelids.
I wondered if her sun was dark, too.
How interesting a white blouse
and brown hair could be.
Her fingers wrapped around a pen,
She was delving into something,
some work of fiction,
God, how I wondered.
Every time the ink hit the paper
she was taking arms against the world.
What could her world be like?
I wanted to know. Everything.
Beer can splash and vodka can make you forget,
but maybe there’s so much more
to artificial joy.
Maybe there’s an art in war.