With grave, sombre look and pulpit tone
the newsman tells of soldiers, killed.
Shows film of homemade, roadside horror,
young life, lauded yet unfulfilled.
Then, by way of utter contrast
to raise his viewers’ lagging spirits,
moves swiftly to the latest sportscast,
talks goals and heroes’ winning tactics.
I am left bereft and tearful –
even though my son’s alive I’m racked
with guilt. I burn, resentful
and ache to smack that smug reporter
for linking players in the same smart breath
with heroes, whose awful price was death.

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