Playing Wars Poem by Richard George

I liked being dead:
falling, your last moment,
letting go, lying there
in cool soft grass.
No one bothering you.

Hard to believe we played together.
Adolescence came,
and with it awareness of class:
working class, middle class,
bottom of the / top of the class.
Toys corroding with jealousy.
If any record exists
of the games we had, destroy it.
I should not have been there.

They may have children now,
doing what we did.
I have just seen on the news
a little girl, in Israel,
shot in the head.

I'm going upstairs, to lie down.