We, The Cold War Kids(Memories Of Rheindahlen) Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

When you were six you
were a country kid with
nettle stung shins and
brothers with voices that
whined like jet engines
the Bloodhound missiles sprouted
like new sewn garlic
the crocus bullet head shoots
unseen in mounds against
ground attack
we were the cold war kids
when you were ten we trod
the dirty gunpowder dust from
bombed out pines, threw hatchets
at trees like Kirk Douglas
(it had to stick in)
passed around the sacred
bb gun, took sisters hostage
yeah we had some fun
whooped in the woodsnap
gunshots
gonging out signals
on a battered old drum