Mandy calls me, says it’s time
for a girls’ night out, it’s wine time.

I say it’s three in the afternoon,
too early for wine and girl talk.

She says that was a metaphor
or something. It’s always wine time.

I’ve been reading reports of atrocities,
can’t tear myself away from images

of the little girl in the car calling
for help, her dead family members

all around her, and the ambulance
rushing over, everybody blown up.

Mandy, I can’t, I say. My head
is full of horror, full of war.

I keep thinking about the girl
hanging from a wall, legs blown off,

the little boy sent out to buy bread
zigzagging to escape assassination by drone.

Oh, Nina, she says, come on out,
it’s always war o’clock somewhere.

Indeed it is, and I’m having a hard time
believing in the goodness of humanity,

but I believe in the goodness of Mandy
so I’ll go out with her for wine and cheese

and let the killing go on without me.