The number of our dead soldiers crept higher in small increments.
It was too easy to forget the tallies of two, four, eight, or ten.
We concentrated on other things--
what needed to be purchased at the store,
which blockbuster film to see on Saturday afternoon,
which season opening show we could not miss and
which ones we’d have to TiVo,
who won the election debates,
which stores carried the kids desired Halloween costumes,
who was going to prepare the rolls and pies for Thanksgiving,
which day we would string Christmas lights on the house,
and which teams would the elitist BCS grace with
an invitation to the grand New Year’s Day bowls.
We were deaf to the news of one-thousand dead soldiers yesterday
as if it were simply just another unmemorable holiday figure --
how many lights were fastened to your Christmas tree,
how many dinners were ordered for the company party,
how many frozen turkey’s were donated for the homeless,
how many shoppers were stuck in long lines,
how many more tickets our school sold to the Big Game.
Sales numbers generated on Black Friday received more attention.
God help me. A thousand numbers with no faces or names.
All I remember of these expired soldiers is slivers of news stories--
a mother from Arizona, upon hearing of the death of her son,
dropped to her kitchen floor and died from a heart attack;
a father from California, upon hearing of the death of his son,
ran out of his house and started the Marine’s van on fire;
and Lila Lipscomb, from the film Fahrenheit 9/11,
traveled to Washington to the gates of the White House--
She came in hopes of displacing her pain.
She came to gaze upon the place she would forever blame.
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