Mud covered boots leave their mark on linoleum tiles,

The combat boots are thrown and bounce around for a moment,

Before finding a spot to rest halfway under the kitchen table.

From this vantage point they view a paradox in motion:

The solider is drunk off war propaganda,

Having drank the molotov cocktails 3 parts hate and 1 part fear;

And she is getting over a bad case of sick with worry,

Having been told by the doctor that there was nothing to worry over

She got high on loss,

A four course score which races through the veins.

But now they take a break and drink in the other,

To hotbox the passion of the moment,

Like a sweat lodge whose purpose is to milk out the poison of war,

They spread out little pills with an “E” on one side and a ;) on the other,

And life becomes livable when there is only one person in the room.

But as quickly as the moment began it ends,

Boots are laced and dried mud cracks off the floor,

The solider leaves sobered,

And the woman stays- a new made mother.


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