The War
I thought that I’d record it:
The war. The year.
Two thousand three;
Twenty days into month three;
Wednesday,
Iraq, USA.
I haven’t awfully much to say,
The war so very far away,
Yet in my living room informed:
Fires, explosions, deserts stormed;
Flashes, missiles seeking heat;
Commentator’s chat, chat, bleat;
Weapons meant for mass destruction;
Money aimed at reconstruction:
Speculation.
And we watch,
Sitting snugly on the couch,
Knowing in this very hour
Humans of all ages cower
In their shelters under house,
Like the roach and rat and mouse;
Helpless and exposed as group,
While we’ve just finished up our soup.
Miles away the Alpha troop
Awaits instructions.
I peculiarly unmoved,
Unable to connect the pictures
On my set with what sits proved:
The dead, the wounded and the maimed,
The pretty greens where guns are aimed;
Flash explosions in the night,
Blown-up buildings in their site:
Hoped deferred, and fright and woe;
And yet the war is like a show
They’re showing God-knows-how,
That’s going much too fast to swallow
Or digest.
The rest
Awaits.
I’m still not feeling.
© The War 03.3.20
Our Times, Our Culture;
Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 