Say Your Prayers

Baghdad reeks,
the stench of phosphorous,
the lightly-tinged patina
of yellow on the balconies
in the green zone.

Safe from evil, troops swim
in Saddam’s pool, bask
on porches while distant rockets
flicker flames of dread.

But safety’s relative nature
urges caution; men say their
prayers before bedtime,
and arcing, luminous spheres
haunt their dreams
while computers clack messages
to family, friends,
and to the children
they’ve never seen.

trapped in the green
zone, troops feel a strange suburban life
for a moment,
for a tragedy,
for a misplaced honor,
and they feel nothing like
the heroes they
were meant to be.