There is an old man
who has done his work,
plowed up and down freeways
or the circumference of a cornfield
until the dull light nearly blinded him,
who has heard again the mortar round
and slumped over a steering wheel
on his way to dinner
on his way home from a war.
That old man
wishes a boy well, squeezes
his shoulder, sets aside tomatoes
on the countertop,
hands him a vintage rifle
to hang above the fireplace,
teaches him war is no boy’s game
and to be with a woman wisely
he must weather well on the cold days.
Another old man resents
the swelling of his knuckles,
curses the Dianas jogging past
as he half steps the boulevard.
In his late night wine
he sees the shaving of a soldier’s head
and rows of bunks in barracks,
wishes the boy no better that he had
and prays for worse.
That old man
demands the end rock and roll,
mourns the rotting of his uniform,
the signing of the truce,
dreams boys into the Balkans,
blackens skylines with waste.
Banners in the square only stiffen his leer.
His tanks will chew the bodies of the young
even as they chant at his bronze feet.