VIOLENCE IN THE CORN

We were radical hippies, 
loving  August sweet corn
on a sunny, hot day
in a flower-painted VW van,
common transport for our tribes.
 
I was the most radical among us.
Bill, keen but mild-mannered.
Steve, who later killed himself.
Sally, sitting Native American style,
nibbling the cob as yellow as her silken hair. 
 
Why would we debate violence over pristine
sweet corn on such a lovely day? 
My political words heat up
as we opine back and forth, 
munch, wipe our chins between salvos. 
 
Bill, who died too young of cancer,
opposed any form of killing.
Steve, divided in his opinions. Sally into the corn.
I argue for revolutionary violence like the character
in Conrad’s novel, Under Western Eyes,
despite knowing a bomb blew him up.
 
Loud, popping sounds startle us.
We rush outside to find,
to our horror, a young man
lying on his porch, bleeding.
An old man waves a gun, 
meanders down the sidewalk 
as if he were out dog walking. 
 
The ambulance, siren blasting,
arrives too late. My testimony
sends the old man to prison for years.
 
I’m an octogenarian now.
With the wall of the world
fast crumbling, Bill and Steve gone,
Sally whereabouts unknown,
I know what I believe about violence.

Originally published on Monteray Poetry Review