Pretending To Go To War

I set up the bivouacs

And decided that I was busy,

My hourglasses set beside campfires,

Overlooking oiled armour and picket-lines,

My footsteps parked by every totem,

My labour bunched in muscles

Awaiting hot water baths.

Did I look away

when I found your fingers

Kindling pits that threatened

To froth with ash?

I do not remember your gaunt memories

Tempering the steel of my weapons

Stealing the sin they earned,

Making of them gentle playthings,

I should have heard your whispers

Woven into sentry reports

Painting my horizons with dull colours,

My scouts found farmsteads

stocked with grain to ground empires

But I saw mundane trophies

That I couldn't bother to prise

From hands filled with life

Distinctly more musical than mine.

Was your name always on these fetishes?

I spend my whole day in bathtubs.