BLACK BUTTERFLY

 POETRY, PROSE AND PAINTINGS

 Boxes 

Another boy came home today,

the usual way

in a box,

draped with a flag

slow marched

from the fat belly

of the same 'plane

that flew him out there.

 

He was met by his mom and dad.

They can only remember

the way he was

with his mom's

soft brown eyes,

his dad's chin

and something of his grandpa

about his nose.

 

They won't see that now he has no face ,

that he was too long

in the heat

and the damp

with the things that

nibble and chaw

on flesh.

He has his teeth.

 

He'll stay in the box after they bury him.

And the white gloves

the smart caps,

the best uniforms,

will fold the flag

give it to his mom

when the box is gone

deep, deep under ground.

 

And they'll mark his name on a wall,

white on white

carefully chiseled.

But they won't say thanks

they won't apologize

for the needless

useless sacrifice

in an indefensible cause.