Eighteen years on
And we're still in the middle of it
Even more so now than then
Perhaps
Since those afflicting us
Are us
Or are close enough to us that
No security theater will stop them
Nor will a regular theater
Or a schoolhouse door
Or a church door
Even if they should be glad to die there
If they really believe what they purport to believe
Or they are the actors in that play
Making themselves worse than Miles Gloriosus
Because they can back their boasts
And walk away
When black men and children cannot
And brown men, women, and children can walk no further
We have lost the "war" we thought to fight
Becoming too much like that we thought to fight
And sliding closer to it every day
As a canceled dinner plan suggests
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