A Child Playing Poem by Artchil Daug

A unit of experts, positioning themselves,
the grenadier, the machine gunner
the common soldier, the sniper
the platoon leader, and those faceless few
who are setting up an ambush

in the folds of my blanket
ready to strike two giants:
a huge racing car, made
of cheap plastic from China;
and a gargantuan truck, made from
hard labor, my father's creation
from a pseudo-stem of a banana plant,
that grew at the back

of my imagination, exploding,
the men and the cars, surprised by
the atomic explosion from a pillow
that slammed these characters as if
they are dissipated
in the light of reason.