I know better than to watch the news,
wrapped in the quilted distance
between where I sit
and where roadside hells
explode sitting soldiers into bits –

primetime statistics, thrown
through satellite waves –

or whatever communication
miracle brings this crap

packaged between commercials
for local car dealerships
and fast foods’ latest offering
of some manly feast on a bun,
too slick not to swallow,
right before the weather and sports.

I know better than to sit and hear
the numbers dead, casualties –
somehow ours more
than those not in uniform –

thumping against my quilted chest,
soft and silent as bodies of dead robins
thrown at my body
for no apparent reason.