A Few Words for the Decider

The other day I read this story in my local paper, LI Newsday. There have been over 3,600 deaths in this gigantic cluster-fuck of a war, none more or less important than the 18-year old "son" who recently lost his life. 

Read the story here: http://www.newsday.com/news/local/newyork/nynysold115288932jul11,0,4407147.story?coll=ny-nynews-print 

The thing that troubles me most is that this will not be the last story of this type that I'll read. What worries me more, if the direst predictions are to be believed, is that this war -- or one like it -- may still be going on when my oldest son (now 13) is eligible to serve. As he admires the new paintball gun he purchased with his birthday money, I decided to post a poem I wrote a few years ago about the war. 

You Need Them More 

Dear Mr. President, 

Take my two boys. 

Lord only knows, 

You need them more. 

Look at my boys, 

Now eleven and nine. 

Fine, young fodder 

For the streets of Fallujah. 

I know they're just boys, 

Too weak to bear arms, now. 

But they can march in step, 

And bear the battle standard. 

They can run for generals; 

Collect dog tags; 

Or neatly stack MREs, 

Until by luck or fate 

They live to see that year 

When they can fight, 

And die, all too bravely 

Like the others you've taken. 

Dear Mr. President, 

Take my two boys 

And make them believe 

In the virtue of your Faith. 

Look at those boys 

So young and obsessed; 

Engaged in Mortal Kombat 

Over who plays X-Box next. 

They're just boys, I know. 

But what is that fact 

To the greater cause 

Of our Christian Democracy? 

They could refill canteens; 

Or comfort the wounded; 

Maybe clean a weapon or two, 

Until they grow acne 

Or the pubic hair needed 

To give spirited battle, 

And die, all too bravely 

Like the others you've taken. 

Dear Mr. President, 

Take my two boys. 

The first and last 

That we produce. 

Look at my boys, 

Smiling and oblivious 

To my exhortations 

On behalf of their tomorrow. 

They're just little boys. 

Why wait until they're seventeen? 

It's not like UNC or USC 

Will be recruiting them anyway. 

They could salvage Kevlar; 

Scavenge for bullets and boots; 

Or scribe sympathetic letters 

Of formulaic condolence 

To parents just like theirs 

Who sent you their sons, 

All because you, Mr. President, 

You need them more.