Rumblings
of War

Boots on the Ground

They gather in polished rooms,
speaking of “boots on the ground”
as though leather alone
could cross an ocean and wage a war.As though boots
somehow fill themselves
with young people.Boots don’t bleed.They leave no mother waiting at the window,
no letters folded up,
no empty chair at supper.Boots don’t wake screaming,
don’t carry silence home,
don’t search familiar streets
for the lives they left behind.So count your boots
until the speeches fade
and the flags are folded.Because it never was the boots
that paid for your war.