Little Toy Soldiers
The soldiers came in cardboard boxes,
Their breath sealed off by masking tape and postage stamps.
They proceeded to set up camp in the living room, tents under chairs,
Flags in the flowers, tiny cannons peering over the piano.
And when the sun was high, the little boys would laugh and scream,
Watching tiny battles unfold in plastic perfection, as model airplanes whizzed overhead,
Dropping lemon-drop bombs and pop-rock grenades.
In time, the little boys went to bed, the whir of tanks on the lips,
The dust of war on their pink hands.
Then, there was silence, stony silence as I stood, surrounded by unmoving troops.
Cornered.
A silent salute, all at attention as I made my way to the stairs,
Their painted eyes following, blinking.
And the thread-thick radio wire lay like copper spider web all across the furniture,
Whirring, humming, listening.
They all froze as I approached with my earthquake footsteps and lethal shoes,
Waiting, their guns posed stiffly upon their shoulders.
But in the nighttime,
I could hear the echo of plastic rifles, see the confetti flash of weapons.
Hear the scurrying movement, like little mice,
Scratching their miniature shoes against the carpet as they staked out the sofa.
They called out with muffled voices as they cracked their limbs and fell away,
Plasticized smoke hanging in the air.
And in the morning, when the light sifted in,
Little toy soldiers lay broken on the kitchen floor.
I watched, despondently, as the little boys cheered over their cereal,
Grabbing the broken dolls by the necks,
Holding their blacked faces up to the sun.
Their breath sealed off by masking tape and postage stamps.
They proceeded to set up camp in the living room, tents under chairs,
Flags in the flowers, tiny cannons peering over the piano.
And when the sun was high, the little boys would laugh and scream,
Watching tiny battles unfold in plastic perfection, as model airplanes whizzed overhead,
Dropping lemon-drop bombs and pop-rock grenades.
In time, the little boys went to bed, the whir of tanks on the lips,
The dust of war on their pink hands.
Then, there was silence, stony silence as I stood, surrounded by unmoving troops.
Cornered.
A silent salute, all at attention as I made my way to the stairs,
Their painted eyes following, blinking.
And the thread-thick radio wire lay like copper spider web all across the furniture,
Whirring, humming, listening.
They all froze as I approached with my earthquake footsteps and lethal shoes,
Waiting, their guns posed stiffly upon their shoulders.
But in the nighttime,
I could hear the echo of plastic rifles, see the confetti flash of weapons.
Hear the scurrying movement, like little mice,
Scratching their miniature shoes against the carpet as they staked out the sofa.
They called out with muffled voices as they cracked their limbs and fell away,
Plasticized smoke hanging in the air.
And in the morning, when the light sifted in,
Little toy soldiers lay broken on the kitchen floor.
I watched, despondently, as the little boys cheered over their cereal,
Grabbing the broken dolls by the necks,
Holding their blacked faces up to the sun.