Army
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)