Sitting in front of the mirror that shows nothing,
tells of nothing, shares nothing.
The hair his father once ruffled after his Wednesday afternoon soccer game
lies now on linoleum finished with tours of itinerant footsteps.
He’s ready.
Ready to die for the people like him with dreams like his back home,
suited up to die for men in suits in chairs
in offices lined with glass windows that laugh out loud,
men who have no dreams but only agendas.