There's a gunner by my toothpaste,
his rifle aimed at the sink.
    
There's an F-16 under my bed,
one wingtip broken, its missile lost.
    
There's a platoon on the sofa,
barricaded behind a cushion.
    
Each night I toss another hundred bodies
into crates; they knew the risks.
    
But the powers opposing me are indomitable.
Each day the plastic troopers rise again.
    
We're well past words, the general and I.
He positions his forces. I clear them away.
    
How did the battle lines get drawn up?
The skirmishes over homework, video games.
    
Does he know that I am weakening
under the constant barrage?
    
That I have come to believe a bathtub
needs a battleship?
    
That I cannot bring myself to remove
the green infantry man behind the clock?
    
That each soldier tells me
it's time I talked to the general.

(First published in Red Rock Review)

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