The Vanity of My Name

It’s not perspective you’re getting
Or adjusting when your eyes shift

Away from encroaching horror
To a star on the horizon

That for all you know is a jet,
Bright enough to be a planet,

Which isn’t even its own light,
Just a reflection—it’s relief

To look away from the blinding
Threat approaching you in your shell

Of customs, clothes, and good microbes,
The only protections you’ve got,

Although firearms are what you clutch
Or pat in pocket as you wait

And watch, and occasionally
Look away to the horizon,

Maybe muttering magic words,
Patriotic incantations,

Revolutionary slogans,
Prayers, curses, God’s personal name.