It’s pretty boring here.
The sand coloured equipment and tents, everywhere.
We’re all dressed the same, blending in, anyway.
But not everyone, everywhere.
Some of us don’t have M, on our forehead.
Some of us don’t have wounds, everywhere.

The food is boring here.
The same, day after day, everyday.
MRE numbered one to twenty four,
Excess scattered, anyway.
But not everyone, everyday.
Some of us don’t have naso-gastric tubes, everyday.
The shrapnel, the bullets,
The blast doesn’t hit us, everyday.

There’s no entertainment,
Not much to do, anymore.
The papers are late seem irrelevant to me, anyway.
But not to everyone, anymore
Some can’t see around them now.
Some can’t walk, can’t laugh, can’t cry, anymore.

Some will never go home. Anyway.

Mike Wroe. Iraq 2003.