My town was a Quaker town with a meetinghouse
and a Quaker college, but no public school.
They bussed us down the road about ten miles.
It was all right. We drummed up friends. We dreamed
of the same stock careers, and sometimes when
we tired of talking fantasy and pop,
the locker gossip turned to threats of war.
What if our two towns fought each other? Who
would win? The answer wasn’t obvious.
Some parents in the other town had guns,
but only for deer. Did that mean the deer
would take our side? Kids in the other town
were tougher, too, excelled at climbing rope
and wrestled for dollars in the parking lot.
But we had the professors. We had labs
and physicists and million dollar grants.
We could build extraordinary bombs.
We wouldn’t, though. We were a peaceful town.
Show us a war, we’d say, and we’ll show you
dust on the beakers. Dust on the hazard suits.
A fine thing to tell ourselves, beside the clock
and coffee shop, the Adirondack chairs.
In truth, we’d strew their fingers everywhere.
We would take their boys for infantry.
We would take their girls for making more.
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