Tenuous

Fragility is a peculiar thing.

It’s not a matter of dainty coffee spoons;

Or exquisitely plated Viennese desserts

In soft pastel rooms with golden lights;

Or the quiet hush of civilized men

In well-tailored suits at tea time;

Or lovely ladies sipping punch on single-house porches.

No, it’s borne from arrogance

And certainty that intellectual gates

Are more durable than steel.

And then when ordinance reins down in harbors,

And sharp knives meet frail flesh in dark alleys,

And keening cries ascend above the smoking ruins,

Then, the formerly comfortable, know just how fragile they really are.