by | May 19, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

from many countries
meet at a table
and speak
of acceptable losses.

The rest of us wrap
our loved ones in our flags
get back in line to catch
the next son, daughter.
sister, or brother,
the lover, husband, or wife
who’ll fall quickly and dead.

Named, are nameless
to those who sit at that table,
speak of acceptable losses,
barter a peace that never comes,

then, break for dinner.


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