and sip our Cosmopolitans
from cold mason jars,
all of us out on the front porch
planning an afternoon game
of naked catch the flag, laughing
in the luminous shade of pre-war.
It was an instinctual reunion of friends
coming together to revive some semblance,
some blind spark we once glinted
between our pretty faces
before we drove down into our years
to waste away slowly
for someone else's pocket money.
There we were,
(what was left of us) the summer of 2002
congregated in that large summer house
the loosened weave of our skin,
limbs draped over the arms of love seats
the flies buzzing like satellites
around our dozing heads.
All day we would indulge in our freedom
to roam from room to room
but by evening we tended to wind up in the garden house
behind the small orange orchard
where the heavy trees begged for their picking
fleeting comments revealing
the nation's tightened security,
children leaping in play around us,
as I watch the screen door open and slam.
The old white house was full of our thoughts
and the suspension of our disbelief
as World War III brewed
on the underside of our tongues,
just over the ridge,
a click of the remote control.
One evening we took turns making announcements
pulling our voices forth in an inspired jest
declaring what the world would look like
if We were emperor
after the dust, once again, settled.