Standing next to my old friend I sense
    that his soldiers have retreated.
And mine? They’re resting their guns
    on their shoulders
talking quietly.  I’m hungry, one says.
Cheeseburger, says another,
and they all decide to go and find some dinner.



But the next day, negotiating the too
    narrow aisles of
The Health and Harmony Food Store
    --when I say, Excuse me,
to the woman and her cart of organic 
     chicken and green grapes
she pulls the cart not quite far back 
     enough for me to pass,
and a small mob in me begins picking 
    up the fruit to throw.

So many kingdoms,
and in each kingdom, so many people:
    the disinherited son, the corrupt
    counselor,
the courtesan, the fool.
    And so many gods—arguing among themselves,
over toast, through the lunch salad
and on into the long hours of the
    mild spring afternoon—I’m the god.
No, I’m the god. No, I’m the god.

I can hardly hear myself over their 
    muttering.
How can I discipline my army? They’re
    exhausted and want more money.
How can I disarm when my enemy
    seems so intent?