Child's Play

Once a boy, always a boy.

A lapdog inspired to obey
the thrust of his barbed wire leash
stretching; swooned by dreams
etched in sanguine ink and smeared charcoal—
crumbly, like shrapnel on canvas.
It was the work of Heroes, said the pamphlets
to the infant Legacy, coaxing the boys with
chocolate-covered honor and candycane pride.
They snatched the bait like gluttons—a second Halloween.
(Once a boy, always a boy.)

A clever selection of children’s songs
are imbibed and learned by them:
the orchestrated symphony of rifles
humming, bombs plucking a
staccato verse for flavor.
Twice wounded, thrice glittered by
crafty glue guns blasting supernovas on
stenciled paper bodies left to dry in the sun,
dripping a mosaic of white, maroon, and green.

A siren then shrieks a note—Recess—
when boys sprint round in the mud; wind-up dolls
in frisky unorthodox tango,
unsure of which direction their feet are
forced to step. They sing their corrupt alphabet
for the younger kids to hear:
A for America!
B for Be a hero!
C for Courage!
and continue until the hype elapses and the bullets run out,
and the music evaporates with their fantasies;
a subtle indication of the truth slipping,
like a boy skins his knee on the pavement.