We are better than this.

We are better than this.
Observation or imagination?

We are better than this.
Twenty-four carat certified
path just barely tightrope wide
between those two. Show me
anything solid for either
and I will kiss your feet,
make you my idol.

We are better than this.
Aspirational, delusional?

We are better than this.
Are you? Am I? I can’t tell.
There’s such a difference
between the ways we are
that better means nothing
or less — what were we,
what have we been?

We are better than this,
in spite of every last nail
in every bed we’ve been asked to lie on.
In spite of all the people around us
soothed by the hammering.
In spite of hammers, and nails,
and the majority
who can’t even admit they’re bleeding
from the pressure and the points
and the constantly broken skin
of their backs.

We are better than this.
Say it until
you choke on it,
and then
what?

Cut a head of cabbage in half
with a large, sharp knife. Reserve half
for soup.

Take the other half
and chop it roughly
into shreds. Set aside —

in a large skillet heat olive oil,
saute garlic. Add the shredded cabbage
to it. Stir violently, over and over,

till coated and as it starts to wilt
in the hot pan progress to adding
generous salt and coarse black pepper.

When wilted down to a limp mass
eat at once, with other meats or
on its own; simple food, a little hot,

a little sweet as well. You will be
fortified for the next war —
and of course, you will have learned something

about the heft of a large, sharp knife.