(scroll horizontally for intended experience)

Star covered coffin sinks beneath the waves,
and bubbling up, black and red
mark a banner on the terror-blue sea,
spangled under heaven.

In the shower, the whirlwind of far-off death
bears on like the water. Too hot,
and never really hurting me.

Soldiers don't die anymore; they grin from a distance
at white flashes and gray missiles.
We lack the decency to revel in destruction
the way men used to, in mountains, through jungle, on the sand.
When we killed close enough to breath on our victims' faces
like we loved them.

In the shower, by the drain,
a shoebox diorama sulks in the water.
The cardboard crumples, piling the scene
of a clay man on his sofa, buried in what fell.

One man can blink
ordering another man shot.
And neither the blinker nor the shooter care about the act.
Only another performance with torn props
and weathered acclaim.

In the shower, by the soap,
I see an eminent man cuffed and dragged, no larger than my thumb.
This man, what's his crime?
Has he threatened liberty? Corrupted the family?
Caged enterprise? Offered a free lunch?
The little soldiers holding him stare back with dead-eyed glee.
He is accused of nothing. Then we all slip.
I hit the shower floor, not a bruise, as the man and his captors
hurry down the drain.
The water thumps my head, reminding me to get up.