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It’s A Shame

He said… “To War”,
with hands buried deep
fondling subcontractor wads
in white cotton pockets
hidden behind, beside
the pleats of his finest
custom fit black trouser.
His bollocks are held close
fuzzy, warm, and protected,
just the tip of a finger
away and checked often.
With each death,
be it by ambush,
IRB, or friendly fire,
another name is added
to a form note
and delivered solemnly
by those whose duty
it is to inform.
His eyes are down,
to feign mourning
yet someday much to late,
we will all know
about the shame.