Why do you write poems about WWII?

Photo Credit: gbaku.Licensed CC-BY-SA.
Photo Credit: gbaku.
Licensed CC-BY-SA.

Sir, I do remember, but as a child in safe St. Louis,
in the Midwest, in America, land of the free, our teacher
told us we were free–on a hot day in early summer
when my dress felt damp–an analogy, you think?
Like blood, or the sweat of fear, faced by a pitcher
on the Cardinals playing still, even in that war year?

The newspaper each day brought pictures
a kid in third grade might remember.
I do remember the news, parents and teacher
talking about the Italian front and the Pacific Theater,
and I was a child, with no capacity to strafe
Zeroes or–spin the globe–German tanks.

Other wars have arrived on the range
for Generation X or Y, and why me, you ask?
It’s boring stuff from old classrooms of the Forties,
and we are tired of news that has no sparkle,
no fireworks to liven up the game, so thanks
for nothing, lady! Some things never change.

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