November 16, 2005

Dulce et Decorum Fuit, Sed Pater Peccavi

We queued and marched, retreated, frowns and first STDs
Carried with dirty laundry and the intent of homework
As we trod home, like earlier generations have trod, have trod.
I unpack and set up base camp, not realizing that
My room had turned into a trench for the other side.

The dining room table is now a warzone,
Blitzkrieg is a German word for Thanksgiving.

They lobby the first shots: Met any nice girls?
How's the job search coming? Pass the potatoes.
Have you earned our love with your grades yet?

They cannot know the devastation I bring.
I dodge and weave, waiting for a clean shot.
I hold my breath and ready the atomic bomb:

Their grandchildren will come from test tubes and turkey-basters
I will tense when I see a pickup do a U-turn on a gravel road
And the family name will end on my tombstone.

Their bodies freeze then flash, chairs burnt black from the ash.
My new home will be where the furthest hint of shrapnel lands.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.