Therapy

Two suffering invalids in separate beds,

America and blenched Afghanistan,

Both trying to recover from the Reds,

Belong in different wards. A careful scan

Of that horizon’s history reveals

That one’s an ancient soldier made of scars

Almost exclusively; the young’un feels

He has to teach what communistic czars—

And Alexander—failed to impose, some

Resemblance to . . . George Washington perhaps.

The bandit is Mohammad’s sacred scum.

The kid wants all to suckle freedom’s paps.

One worships gold, one atavistic things

Like vengeance. Let’s keep ‘em in separate wings.