I am reminded of the ghosts of wars past.
The unknown unknowns.
Shedding blood for profit
Necessary to an empire of pretenders

When I see the desiccated bones of the soul
That died a few yards from the bent flag pole of the mutilated water station.
Blue barrels chain-sawed.
Under a withered live oak.  

“He stuffed photocopied money into his pockets . . .
Said the anthropologist, as she reverently swabbed the bones for a DNA sample,
“And sewed pockets into the jacket for his real money.”
Before gently placing the remains in a black trash bag.
Like the one I imagine Donald has
In his garage back home.