The Pipes
The last day of the recovery

arms swinging in time to martial drums
a fierce, measured cadence of incredulous rage

The stocky gray-haired piper,
the brown-skinned uniformed policeman, and
the middle-aged Latino schoolteacher
watching on TV-
all infused with the righteous anger of Celtic warriors

we mourn our dead, guilty only of geography,
we sit and weep,
while TVs tell stories of flame-filled horror and
mythic courage.
Still the pipes play and the drums beat on.

We, the people of cities with gleaming towers,
are not patient, nor are we bloodless.
Roused, we find comfort in the those pipes,
for in that very measure is the promise of the
government of men, monolithic, imperturbable,
unrelenting

The pipes herald true battle fields
not the killing grounds brought about by men
who were afraid they were not men
in the dark, misguided service of a Deity they blaspeme.