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Did We Make Them Safe?
White rows rectangular, close to coffins-
for some, one sheeted transfer out.
For others, as designed- a step,
be it on one foot or two...
these disillusioned, ribboned youth-
(Careful now, writer, you!)
Walter Reed, deep in need
forever famished,
seeking torn and mangled flesh,
war's droppings, these torn minds
with not yet full developed shrapneled chests.
Through gauze enough to mummy make,
muffled voice fought to next victim/mate,
“Did we do it? Did we make them safe?”
Next rack a laugh, a lug
from smirking mug escapes,
“They ain't no bombs here yet,
but TV says they comin' any day.
Now they wants my little brother an'
he don't get no say.”
Pretty nurse, the stuff of angles,
hot and blond and trim,
(war gone, Fallujah what?)
Leaning low, distractions show,
“And how's my heroes feel today?”
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