My war here at home

My war here at home
Is a revealed pair of
torn Union Jack boxers,
legs rent from below the knee,
an engine block in a field,
a child’s torso in the ditch
a young man with half a face,
and a vacant cranium
craters in ordinary roads
the sound of countless rifles
being made ready all at the same time,
the clang of a door in my unconsciousness
a friend lying in in a pool
of his hearts blood on the floor of a bar,
plumes of smoke watched
from a bedroom window
and funerals;
funerals for guys who,
who drank too much,
worked too hard,
slept too little,
drove too fast
forgot it was loaded ,
who gave up on love,
were in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
That is some of my war right here at home.

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