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Uncle Bombardier | A Poem by Robert Lee Haycock

A most convenient door
My dry, disgusted hands
The hammer of switches
My tongue, keyed to riot
One poor correspondent
Do tell, do tell

Lucy, must I see these wounds?
Cecilia, must I sing my qualms?

Hunkered down in the soil of solid dreams
Riding the shirttails of too many men made mad
I chart our dismal progress
Blood streaming from our maps
Above a remote and alien world
The innocent die but not as well