Edit of earlier poem

BASIC

Something there is in us that likes to go to war,
but is dishonest, and will not admit
to a love of blood,
yet snickers up its sleeve when we try to justify
this warm pool growing sticky around our feet.

We will search for anything to make it good and right
that we are here again, in love with resolve,
and cordite, and smoldering. We hand over the wheel to stolid, steadfast men,
then crouch near our televisions
for hours until we hear the first news of carpet bombing.

We turn to each other. “Outstanding,” we say.
When our children come
too close,
we shoo them
from the room.