In this country of exiles . . .

In this country of exiles where I live
we watch each other with a flinching glare;
we grin, we are even polite; we don’t quite dare
point out, no matter how drivenly we strive
to make this home, it will never make it ours.
So we stalk the ground, smirking, pretending, careless,
marauders in the house, the girls fiery,
prim or scatological, postmodern, primitive,
the guys contemptuous. We know each other’s goods
too well: You can’t fool me. And I can’t fool you.
We’re both more than happy with our crimes,
and if the generations after us
must pay - let them! The world was just our tool,
our toy, our treason. For the dead there is no time.

© 2006 Christopher Bernard