On Baghdad

It was Thursday and the war had just started.
With reverence, we sat and saw the bombardment.
The screen was green and black, the shades of murder.
Papa drank a Bud Light.
Mother knitted a red scarf.

It was Thursday and the war had just begun.
Screams were filtered out of live broadcasts.
The sun shined as it always did.
There were no bullets or helicopters.
I played in the back yard.

It was Thursday and the war was in bloom.
Vague notions wavered through the air.
Lies became a symphony.
Someone danced in Washington.
A songbird cawed a dirge.

It was Thursday and the war was everywhere.
A man was frowning on a subway line.
The newspapers were aghast with patriotism.
It was a day like any other.
And nothing was ever the same.