Our boy wanted to fight
For freedom.
Our boy heard a story once
About a soldier who came home
And didn't remember the fight.
Then one morning the soldier woke,
Shot twelve kids and
himself.

Our boy is fighting
For freedom.
And he's just fine.
He has a boy face,
Boy blue eyes,
Boy dark hair in tufts.
A boy. No one hurts a boy.
But himself.

Our boy hears the
Ch--ch--chopper blades every day,
Ch--ch--chopper blades, ch--children rot.
Hot blood.
There are buzz--zz--zzing flies
In his mind.
And he drinks at night.

They never said how clear desert mornings are
In the capital of nowhere where his
Where his where his where his thoughts echo.

And our boy's day is like every other.
Echoing thoughts,
Rotting blood,
Hangover.
Tasteless something
Slides down a choked throat.

And our boy drifts
Through marching
In line
To the beat
Of the d--d--drum.
And he drifts
Through the day
He is blind
To the sun.

Our boy gets to patrol.
Four horsemen in a Humvee,
Five if he counts himself,
Trot from camp.

Can our boy fend off exploding death?
We'll see.
He trembles like a puppy,
As they near the seventh mile.
Trembling on the empty road.

Our boy relaxes,
And he doesn't hear
The click, the scream.
And he doesn't see
The milky orange in scarlet rain.
And he doesn't feel
Being ripped apart.
The teeth of death.

Puppets chatter in the box
At five of a roadside bomb.
One survivor.
Unscathed.
His superiors pinned his limbs together with medals
Then swatted him aside to avoid
Any sticky situations.

They say if a soldier notices every detail
detail detail detail dead--
His mind will sna--
Dead.
So they brush off the detail
detail detail dead.
And let the rushing mind power down.

Our boy is a ticking tock bomb.
He wakes one morning,
Shoots twelve kids,
Then himself.