Zvi A. Sesling

Photo by Su Red

Inside The Head The War Rages On

Morning jumps up like a baby
and you want to change the
diaper of your life, the woman
who has treated you like a
prisoner of war, the children who
hound as if you are in Baskersville
while the dog you should be
walking has done his thing in the
corner of the living room

Depression comes in four flavors
and you choose vanilla which
happens to be the scent of the
candle the woman burned when
you found her in your bed with
someone from Harry’s Bar & Grille

You long for the peaceful days of
war in the jungle or desert when
in the heat you could smell the enemy
miles away even when they melted
into vines or rocks or when they hid
in caves and the odor of rotting corpses
that defied the separation of warrior
and civilian denied your senses

There are those who prefer sludge and toilets
to toiling among pieces of buddies blown
into granules of sand, who do not acknowledge
the greater good, who would sit like Napoleon
atop a steed at the pinnacle of battle and scratch
themselves while their minions died