a certain kind of peace

A Certain Kind of Peace

Maybe the drummer played too loud, or maybe someone handed

an arrogant government minister forced by revolution into faraway exile

a cream jacket trimmed in gold, and a matching wrap around

the correct combination of all those opposite-dialing dead bolts.

We would not be able to leave and reenter.

There were grumblings of complaint,

ever-shifting barriers beneath the surface

she was perceptive and must have sensed.

The view melted into cloudy warm suggestion,

how much she had sung and how she deserved

to come visit you and pretend you were a real

strong one. I wasn’t. They were so much

leftover sausage and biscuit.

You're the boss, and this is it.