November

Beware of that
we think is right,
vague sincerity
coming from belief
and misunderstandings
that form our world,
to celebrate war
with narcotic poppies
to soothe that of our
conscience we may retain.
Pendants on poles,
no white doves . . . .
cannons in the park,
pomp and circumstance
marching church and temple
to take up arms again,
again, again and yet again,
while the widow and her mite
tearless, aches in silence.