Poem 2

   A poem that seems appropriate at this time of year, and as another one of our soldiers' bodies has been repatriated.


December twenty-sixth
(this game with my conscience)


When they simulate
the blood as well,
provide snap-top
plastic coffins
with miniature flags
to drape over them,
hands that separate from arms
and men from sons
then my conscience will win out,
knowing there have been
no niceties here, that
at least one time we
have dealt again with
useless, ugly
endings.

Until this happens, though,
I am the factory
of plastic armament,
have contracted with my son
to put together
war toys.