my stuttering steps tell less and less
and accomplishment seems distant yet
and oh, i, oh, am so, oh, totally tired
this breast plate, squad automatic, helmet
desert temperatures, can't we just end this?
instead i trudge left right left right
meanwhile in a air conditioned office,
officials offer their opinions on the operation,
no longer surgical but surreal and everlasting,
explosions just statistics and blips on maps
and maps on walls with no faces, just
lines and suspected lines and empty spaces.
like the meteorologist who guesses on weather
from an office covered with maps and degrees,
talking about hope for the end of this storm
just sipping coffee while a homeless man
sleeps hopelessly soaking in the spring storm
his hope in only that his things won't float away,
and that this too, will end someday.
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