Four thousand miles and a satellite connection,
and I know the voice but not the face direction,
she says the kids are fine and winter came in hard,
I say I am fine and keep the dark parts in the yard.
Six more weeks they tell us, then they told us that before,
and the rotation date is just a line they keep in store,
I have learned to take the timeline with a grain of battle salt,
and count the days in increments and not assign a fault.
Bring them home, bring them home,
stop the clock and bring them home across the foam,
bring them home, they have done enough,
they have given everything the policy required of stuff,
bring them home, before the next rotation starts,
before the long deployment breaks another set of hearts,
bring them home, bring them home.
The politician on the television says the mission matters still,
and perhaps it does but I would like to hear it from the hill,
from the men who will not go there and the men who sent us in,
whether the mission matters from a different kind of skin.
But I know that my opinion on the politics is small,
and the soldier follows orders until the orders fall,
so I press the uniform and I will be ready when they say,
bring them home, and I will come home any given day.