The Ideal War

We would count our boys into war

After their six week basic training

Just so we can tick the box

     Just so they can play soldiers

          Just so they can tell their grandkids they played soldiers

And tasted mud

And felt the burn

Of old rope

And the bone-chilling

Damp pushing past

Knock-kneed

Blind-Thirsty

From the salt

sweat brass

blood on warm days

And knowing firsthand

The science of acid

Lactating screaming joints

And weeping having stabbed

The dummy

Fixed bayonet

Up through the throat

For fear of the need to practice

Then the call-up

Heading for enemy shores

Pressing sweat into their bibles

Trembling away their training

The world a swinging mirror

But in the distance they see

Blue Yellow Red Green

       Blue Yellow Red Green

              Blue Yellow Red Green

Not a beach

Of sand or pebbles

But of dots laid out in formation

An expectant enemy next to each mat

And holding a name

Of their opposite number

As if in the arrivals lounge

Waiting

Muttering

Twister

    Twister

         Twister

A mat and a spinner

And in row

    After row

        After row

The enemy limbering up

And a little later

Counting the same number back

“Zero losses, sir.”

Each clutching a reminder of their life on the front

A certificate for the winner

   A certificate for the runner up

       A certificate for those who just wanted to watch