The Soldiers Toil In The Middle East Poem by Martin Lochner

1

dead children
dead mothers
dead ashes
of everything

they had Wall Mart
faces, my enemy
fiery fears
wishing to be safe

2

cooking a napalm stew
eating
digesting
my grey matter conscience

3

the home coming soldier
sees phantoms
between shopping isles

after life families looking
at him

“their blood is on my hands”
he murmurs

smearing percale bed sheets,
curtains and the whole kitchen
floor

4

I remember every face I slayed
I see my woman in bed and
I am unable to crawl in next
to her.


“Easy” she say but comfort takes
me off my guard

bombs in the fridge
grenades in the toilet