Didn't think I'd still be behind this late in the day, but...
Poem
It becomes a chore to use the phone
to call you. Calls alone have become like bullets
boring bad news into us. When I call you, it's about Iraq.
You tell me that in two weeks you return to Iraq
Soon, no more worries about sex (except by phone),
booz, long commutes. Nothing to plan for but the bullets.
Basically, it's like a Buddhist temple with missiles,
I hear your wife as you joke about Iraq,
where the only thing more valuable than petrol is a phone.
For the next year, on the phone, we'll listen for echoes of bullets in Iraq.
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