by Paul Mathers
I’ve never known a battle loss,
the elders who survived to thank, to be sure,
but my crowd were
tripping in glitter piles
outside night clubs,
but later the buttoned-down
solemnity to kneel before an empty cross.
All these freedoms paid by
faceless young who were cut out
from so many books, art, kisses, tastes,
by way of someone else’s fight.
Their namelessness fitting for a nation
that accepts such gifts
as a matter of course.