One man's freedom, another's fright

Your post adolescent
manly fingers
under pressure
from your demanding
arm strength
hold this thirsty blade
at my neck.

My post modern
deadly fingers
quiver from my
technological might,
holding these aerial sentinels
at your head.

Not that we will
break off this staring match;
but if we did,
we may just be able to go home
to our domesticity
where your mother may
make me a hearthen flatbread,
and where my son may hold your hand
in urging to play swords with him.

---

A poem commissioned by David Lockman.