i hide behind the curtains
from the glance of the mailman
what it feels like to be certain
i'll never know, but will pretend

he's quiet, polite, and gentle
without a trace of a memory
he turns his truck's warn handle
as if he burns a tree

just a half century before
he wouldn't have to be of service
to anyone but the machine of war
and the drive to murder germans

and now like an aging whore
getting paid less than i get paid daily
he drags his corpse from door to door
to give with shame, what he could've given bravely