When eating pasta, I see and think...
by JS Schilling

In Brooklyn I see
young men in muscle t-shirts,
flexing triceps and shadow boxing,
their waistcloths simmer
with the swell of the rrr-rumba beat
for their young ladies,
But a ticker comes across my T.V.
interrupts my dinner,
"Three U.S. Soldiers killed today in the war..."
I slurp my pasta as the newscaster
changes from a serious to a happy,
"And later, the hotdog eating contest was a blast..."
I look across the alleyway,
the boys still play games as old men dictate,
why we should, "stay the course."
More pasta in me and still I see
these young boys across the way,
laughing, singing, dreaming,
dreaming, sighing, dying...
With my last twirl of the noodle fine
I think,
"No war is worth the legs of these boys,
(especially not this one),
no war is worth the ignorance of grown men."

Copyright © 2007 - JS Schilling
Published: 8/23/07   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem