Dead Doves

It’s March Nineteenth, two-

thousand and nineteen, it’s sweet

sixteen for one of

the wars that we’ve lost count of

all that remains are dead doves

 

and the graves are all

overflowing, and we think

we’re better off not

knowing the names and faces

and the history of the

 

people and places

that we’ve turned into rubble

and bones, and Sam needs

less marching Johnnies and Janes

now, so they can stay state-side

 

and fly drones while they

drink Starbucks and eat scones and

after their shift they

can go home and sleep in their

own bed, and have nightmares from

 

the video feed

of countless dead and dying

and when they wake up

they can go on Amazon,

trying to buy happiness

 

trying to forget

the mess they’re making, and the

lives that they’re taking

trying to forget that the

GI Bill and the home loans

 

aren’t worth all the

karmic debt that keeps piling

up and up and the

green beer is gone now, no need

for that cup, Saint Patrick’s Day

 

is over and the

meadows are dry, no four-leaf

clovers, just boxes

of fodder still arriving

at Dover, still draped in lies,

 

luck can’t save us when

the last dove has died and we

realize that God

has gone AWOL and money

can never buy back our soul.

 

 

About soitgoes1984

I was born and raised on land stolen from the Pocumtuc. I now live on a small island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, on land that was stolen more recently, from the Hawaiians. I am addict, struggling to kick the habit of fossil fuel. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
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