She washes a dish, checkered blue
Sudsy bubbles trapped between pruned fingers.
A monitor sits on the sill,
And sounds of laughter carry through
Their voices piercing, high and shrill

The desert stretches for miles, tired, red
As he sits alone on his cot
Stealing a moment of silence.
The sand creeps into tents
Through cracks the soldiers forgot.

She is tired, so tired—but not enough to forget
That the boys’ field trip is tomorrow
So she packs lunches, a matching set
Identical, except for pickles on the one
Which the youngest can’t seem to swallow

He opens his dirt stained letter once again,
And takes out the photo hidden within.
Hand resting on fatigued knee, he looks down and sighs
At two gap-toothed boys, a woman, and a dog
Cracked  fingers tracing lips, resting in their laughing eyes.