I am lying in bed, with the television on mute,

And they are talking about the war again,

Men in shirts and ties, talking about the war,

With creases in their faces, like rippled sand,

Like the rippled deserts of Afghanistan, and

They keep showing it, snapping back to it,

That rippled desert, made of foreign sand

And blood and bombs and shells of cars,

To the soldiers in fatigues with the packs

On their backs, marching in their boots,

But I am here, lying in this room, this bed,

Just wondering where my husband is,

Because he did not come home again,

And I am picturing him marching around, marching

Around our neighborhood, these American streets,

With our upside down house strapped to his back.

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