War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

home (2)

late. night. rye sands your voice. down. an inch or two. I answer the call.
because I promised you once I’d talk you down if you need me. always will.

civvy world. stranger than the desert. all this buying shit. setting up house. picking up chicks. where’s the goddamn orders, the goddamn products. where’s the GPS?

“my home’s over there” you say. crave it. poppy fields. war. the rush.
because that’s what you do. all you’ve ever read about, worked, wanted to be.

now you’re a thoroughbred harnessed to a fucking merry-go-round in a kiddy’s park. putting in time ‘til the next big Op, trying to make sense, caught in between.

a goddamn warrior in a country that has Alzheimers with regard to war
a country “so damn good at it” to quote a friend, yet negligent of you uniformed

my eyes are heavy. I need sleep. “but anyway”, I say to you, “soldiers are like artists, admired when we’re beautiful, despised when we do the real thing”


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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled home (2). It was posted here on June 03, 2010.

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