Past the white picket fence,
Through the front gate and down the path,
What tenderness welcomes these children?
Only occupied territories,
Only barbed comments and slamming doors
That disperse dialogue like pistol shots.
Their domestic landscape divided,
Trenches dug between the kitchen and the
Study; their hallway, now a no-man's land.

Their children sought cover in their (bunked) beds,
They buried their heads under camouflaged sheets.
"What did we do to deserve this?
We promise to be good from now on,
Please, please, please"
A temporary cease-fire ensued, but
The shuffling of snipers answered them back.

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