By Lucy Ricciardi

Here comes the coming war, winching up a man-
hole, slippery, new to itself, not yet in a squad 
of ardent followers cheering in the bleachers, their 
tossled heads not yet arrayed in a military lineup 
of black subtractions.  Like baby eagles, they have 
much to learn and lack the time.  From battle-ax 
to bomb they hack the fanglements of carnage on 
their I-pads dripping digital blood to game a nearby 
brawl.  They’ll graduate in lock step and soar into
the frightened air.  Is this what the next election 
has in store, another war to end the war?  Then send 
the grizzled generals to linger over Syria, remotely 
playing chess against indifferent drones in high alert 
on secret planes.  We’ll zero in to count the ripened 
dead and ask, “who is it benefits,?  Who won the pool?” 
For now their mothers pick them up at middle school.
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About Lucy Ricciardi

Several years ago, I turned to the study and writing of poetry. My poems raise issues of fairness, health, love, and the weirdness of Nature. I was raised in Carle Place, Long Island, in one of Levitt’s first housing developments. I now live with my husband in Connecticut where I am currently working on a first collection.

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