Why Those Shoes

The bleary-eyed boys, a quarter century old, caged in by time: the impending prime of their life, nearly skip over the pile of misc. leather shoes whose matches may be buried in Auschwitz or Dachau or in another pile in another museum or in the fertile soil of the collective memory, but instead they pause, …

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Pick a country, and imagine we’ve been at war with it for fourteen years. Write a love story in that world.

Bring our troops home Is a type of joke all it’s own Because all we’ve ever known is war. Developments are two steps back, And casualties are currency To the comfortable and corrupt. The deadliest battles Are slipped under the rug, And Momma writes letters Because she doesn’t sleep too much. They say we don’t …