They call you
citizen
until they
need a number
Something
to be counted
Taxpayer
Something
to be moved
Laborer
You’ll be called
patriot
when the machine
needs blood
They’ll lie
to give you
a sense
of purpose
Then
dress you
in a uniform
for the flag
And teach parents
how to fold
their grief
into triangles
Somewhere
in climate controlled
well lit rooms
Far from
the screaming
and the blood
Politicians
study maps
erase villages
and calculate
acceptable loss
Without ever
smelling death
When a soldier
falls in battle
the map
does not change
As another
takes his place
A family
loses a son
The machine
loses a unit
There is
a difference
But only
one of them
knows it
The speeches
come later
He died
with honor
We appreciate
his sacrifice
Beautiful words
placed like flowers
over the lies
and industrial
decisions
Because
there are things
governments
cannot
and will not say
You are not
a citizen
You are
what the
nation spends
All of us
We are
plastic soldiers
in a miniature
dirt war
Held between
the fingers
of politicians
Who will never
have to face
the wars
they start