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An Army of One (poem)
By Larry Kerschner
Do you hear the dead complaining?
Killing is easy –
it don't mean shit.
What's that look for?
You think I should be touched by
the death of mother/brother/son/daughter/uncle/father/child?
The only touch I feel is
the half ounce of pressure on the trigger –
I get to be
all I can be.