The Human Shell

The human shell is so soft
it can be easily pierced
by a piece of lead
no bigger then a fingernail
if thrown with sufficient hate.
Skin stretched taut across 
our backs is pushed easily aside
and our hearts explode
like hammered jello.


A  paramedic turns from the ambulance,
steps through the pulsing light,
hands joined  in front of him,
holding the sacramental scissors.
He genuflects
beside a man lying in the street,
palms resting on either side of his head
as if he had just finished a set
of push-ups.

 
The medic bows over
the body and begins
to cut away the shirt glued with
black blood
to the man's back.


The whirling lights, the siren's song
and I am lost again and back waiting for
the helicopter's slapping sound.
Fear tastes like a sucked penny on my tongue
until my son calls me "Daddy" and wonders
why the man is lying in the street.
He has seen his first casuality in the never
ending war and close to home,
at that, but


Who is the enemy and
Where are the uniforms and
What side am I on and
Will there be Conscientious
Objectors this time
around?