Hard

This is your day now.

You drive down a highway without bombs.

You pick up your dry cleaning, a business suit

Hanging from a mechanical arm coming closer.

You lie next to me and tell me you are happy.

You look around this house we have filled

With toys and plastic and books we will never read.

You listen to me talk to you about television, things

That will never matter to you again.

And you sit here, with me, at a restaurant,

Where people are saying to you,

How hard it must have been and how

How good it must feel to be home again.

And as I watch you smile and agree,

Touching my face with your hand,

Your hand which is still covered

In desert lesions, I know you are half lying.

Because I know how war is, and how this,

Even this, the life you have always wanted,

This can never compare to the thrill of that,

Of being deployed in a dangerous country

Where every day is a day where you can die.

I know that even though war is hard,

Coming home can be harder.

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