After the Revolution

had failed
(they always fail)
and the bedraggled irregulars
were only a scattered threat

I sit in my house
typing and drinking coffee
and dreaming of poetry
and fishing trips

knowing my neighbors
are traitors
but we greet
on the streets
with smiles
and kind words

I admire the green of the trees
the deer who graze peacefully
as it is summer
and no guns are in the woods

I fish but the fish are safe
I am a poor angler
the river flows past
filled with spring water

but at moments
I wonder if i am
like the peaceful deer

unaware of the guns of winter?