In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us.
Thin as a knife, our chance to live depends on such a sign while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith; be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face annihilation unless all citizens get in line.
" I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere other citizens more fearfully bow in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there will never be slaughtered by my act.
" Our vows cross: never to kill and call it fate.

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