Standard Issue

She is of soiled lapels, from white shirts.
Starched, pleated, navy skirts,
and tattered gray socks.
The buckles are broken on her
Mary Jane's, the straps
worn thin.
Its standard issue.

Her parents scream foul words
and through the thing plywood
walls she can hear the pair.
She cries as she runs,
runs up the stairs and under her covers
to muffle the voices as they are
broken through the layers of the house.
Her chest heaves
with coughs
and sputters.
She can hear the next apartment over,
the next family's feud and tears.
Its just standard issue.

After the family dinner they sit
next to the rubbish stereo.
Standard issue.
Through its chopped waves they can hear
cries and war explosions,
detailed stories of casualties
and fighting fronts.
Fighting for freedom they say.
The only freedom is from the relentless tears.
Before the news of blood,
she is sent to bed.
Standard issue.

She dreams of her parents cold faces,
staring blankly at the radio's calls,
unaware of the newscaster's reports.
Blank and grey are the walls
she dreams of,
she's contained and tortured
for names of those she knows not of.
The pain never stops.
Each lashing she sheds a tear.
But they dry up and fade away.
She's by the fire, it's crackling
and hissing from the soft wet wood.
The shutters on the windows
slam and creak,
giving into the sharp winds and rain.
The smell of rotting wood and
corpses wreaks her dreams.
And with a sound like
fireworks on an early summer night,
its gone.
Newspaper reads the next morning:
Family of 5 and others die in the midst
of fighting

The guns that were fired,
the bombs that were dropped,

Standard Issue.