The Things They Don’t Fight For

Children roll and squeal and play

Among books and miniature civil war soldiers

But as they lie on the hard linoleum floor, dust bunnies watching their every move

They never seem to learn the lessons painstakingly written in the

Leather-bound books, ink crimson such as the water stains in the ceiling

No mother comes to nitpick and henpeck these children on the floor

Nobody remembers that the dry heart and dusty souls beneath their feet

Were given willingly and sent away to a different shore

Even the comforting light blue paint is chipping from the walls in her house

Desert made a Mother’s home an empty nest

Until her little toy soldier comes marching home

Until her little toy soldier comes marching home