January 17, 1991
My dismay began with a setting sun,
Clear skies, and a red wafer on the horizon.
Driving westward on I-20, news was proclaimed:
we are dropping bombs from planes.
My task, to keep the boys happy in Fort Worth Hall,
Kept me moving, counting money, and refilling the machines.
Soda Pop. Cheese Crackers. Milky Ways.
Sugary snacks for them all.
Their cheers.
Their yells.
Their hoots and hollers.
Pierced my soul,
Made me nervous around the collar.
With every explosion they proclaimed:
our dark distance from His pain.
The enemy: faceless.
The TV: another game.
How hearts so quickly act as if
there’s no cross to bear.
The war machine…
does not care.