I Got You

Remembering those summer rows
of emerald razors long and lean
that slashed across a freckled nose
intent on sniffing out some foes
in which to drain a magazine.

With gnarly sticks we’d all convene
beside that farmer’s furrowed field
alive with furtive fronds of green
to camouflage a sly marine
determined not to meekly yield.

Our bloodlust couldn’t be concealed
so anxious to say, “BANG! You’re dead!”
no treaty would be signed or sealed
or higher court could be appealed
to stop the drops that must be shed.

But after the insurgents fled
we three would make our way back home
to eat then scurry off to bed
while playing back within our head
that conflict on the fertile loam.

As oldest, I was first to roam
forsaking sod to stalk the street
beset upon by steely chrome
and tenets of a vicious tome
embedded in the hard concrete.

The front became a cold retreat
from which I never traveled back
and though we siblings seldom meet
my self absorptions still compete
with pieces I refuse to lack,

and now they’ve shipped one to Iraq
beyond the land of beaten ploughs
I feel my heart about to crack
my troubled face morosely slack
remembering those summer rows.