they flew at night following our telecast vietnam war
black and white as live as bullets making imaginary holes
in a sofa for two, or in the hall where we ran blind
in suburban bedtime uniforms chasing each other's enemy
with plastic one dollar bayonets and guns, their cartridges
spent over and over again on bodies which could never die

until we heard the buzzing of helicopters returning
to richmond airbase, then we'd run after them wide-eyed
with weapons breaking through the screen door's thin wire
and into the open backyard where the stars had become
slow moving tracers flying in southern cross formations
towards constellations of dragons which spat guerilla fire

from suicidal red star gunships on short-term loan from
the heavenly kingdom, and we'd turn and run screaming
into the dragons' shadows - its urban-dark foxholes and
tall fenceline trenches - feeling the dragons' breathe upon
our exposed necks, the wash of invisible dust in our play
-rustled hair, before resuming the battle indoors.

© Richard Hillman