The pictures of their dead children
are strapped to the chain link
of the ball field they played on.
A bullet holed flag waves
raggedly from the outfield,
dawn’s light filtering every hole.
The cowboy and his horse
have long since bowed in grief
from the red pitcher’s mound.
The children in the tenements
just behind, live in fear that the
next bat crack would be a bullet.
The dead nine team photo adorns
their walls. They will never play
the game again. Only know
that they will work in the blast factory,
producing rim and center fire rounds
for all the hellfires still to come.
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