War Poem

On the beach we talk of war

as the sun bleaches the sand.

They say it will be over in a year.

He says it’s the fault of the banks.

I say it’s the decline of the West.

It’s the rise of the East, he says,

We’ll be white bones like fossils and shells.

He speaks on infantry, aircraft and tanks.

It could last five years, I say.

He says it’s the fault of the Jews.

I say it’s irrational fears.

It’s the fault of the reds, he says.

I say it’s the red, white and blue,

and the fault, my friend, is you.

 

Miami Beach, ca. 1941/42

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