Poetry 365: Conscripted

The war had come to strip mall America.
I was a member of a Wal-Mart militia,
armed with the old stock of sporting goods.
I'm patrolling the abandoned streets
with a cold black gun in the waistband
when I see a solider in grey fatigues
about to shoot a man that I know as Ricky.
I draw down and it is done.

I grab Ricky and ask him if he's ok.
He's in shock and just
sort of shakes his head
as we run for cover.
I can see the silver bullets
coming towards us.
One slides between us,
hitting the wall of an unloved deli.

We are taken in a school bus
for a debriefing. The ride
is thankfully uneventful.
I am taken into a dingy gymnasium.
Brown damp carpets, ping pong tables
and a few old basketball hoops.
There is an office here, and I wait
in line and look through the glass window
at the commander, who looks like a memory
of sleep. Finally, it is my turn.
I hand over my gun and say,
"This is a war for single men,"
and try to find my way home.