Simon, you’re a survivor,
lived through the bombardment,
outlasted the conscription
& you speak for us
but not for us, silver tongued,
eyes hidden behind ballistic shields.
I’ve warned you, if I catch you
in a lie… maybe on patrol, in a courtyard
after we’ve dug up their cache.
It’s been nearly six years, I’m sure you’re
at home on your couch, boys looking up,
listening, war stories, yours and mine
remember the time – we ducked
and ran –weapons company would
or did the Fedayeen get to you,
did you pass with the Carabinerie
that October day?
And so you know I have boys now,
too young for war-stories, and I
recreate you in my dreams, watch you stride away.