He folds the newspaper,
puts it down, lights up
a cigarette.  The papers

still feed the usual crap,
withhold the truth, Joe
Public never gets to see

the real, the underlying
**** beyond the print.
Wars, big or small, have

the same underlying truth,
not seen or known except
those at the front or on

the ground, or those, like
him, who’ve seen the crap
the big boys at the top relay.

Bill inhales, as the young
guy in the bed beyond sleeps.
One of the perks, a good ****,

no shortage when you know
who to call and who is in
the know.  His father had

the U.S. flag framed neat on
the wall, spouted proudly
the American Way, dreamed

of things improving, sky’s
the limit, he used to say, in
that slow John Wayne way.

Bill exhales, flicks ash, thinks
on the young guy asleep,
the naked arm on the cover,

eyes shut, tight ****. He thinks
on that young guy in East Berlin
he rubbed out, spy or such,

never ask, do the job, keep it
short and clean. He inhales deep,
the latest involvement overseas,

waste of time and lives, he muses,
take out the top guys let the ****
sheep fall after. He closes his eyes.  

He recalls the time JFK smiled at
him in passing, just before the hit,
the week after. All hush hush, lips

sealed, none spoke, rumours spread.
Men dead. A ***** game it all is, he
sighs, opens his eyes, all *******, all lies.