Theatre of War
by Michael Brett

The entrance bugles its golden welcome
Like a disco. A strange escalator draws you in,
You scarcely notice it, or the framed arms factory cheques
And catalogues of prosthetic limbs. You are blinded,
Deafened by cameras and speeches.

There is a sense of disappointment when you see it:

A cardboard box, a children's theatre where-
On painted sticks-move the aeroplanes, tanks and guns
To the paper rhythms of

Newspapers, tv and election deadlines.

Copyright © 2010 - Michael Brett
Published: 3/25/10   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem