Venice, Los Angeles

The artists talk about the war
in their home on the canal.
Outside pomegranates fall
like dull bombs on a blue deck.

Books lean like tired children on weathered shelves.
The small dog stares directly at me as the fire burns.

We’re divided in our views,
not from each other, but within ourselves.

Eventually, the focus of conversation turns from war
to a small television where Steve Martin opens for the Oscars.