There was a war you never saw.
You still report on the last one you knew—
The zepplins and horse-drawn artillery,
Black-and-white newsreels of pain.
Today I read headlines about your latest clash:
Sleek drones and dirty bombs,
Lasers in the city somewhere.
But I have in my attic a Samsonite case
Full of a dossier and a lock of hair.
The passport I gave my face to, not my name.
And that is how history is: broken skin
For which we will always be hunting a cause.
