Analysis of America's New War

My son,
your bedroom has become a nostalgic museum,
displaying your discarded, youthful exuberance
with a baffling assortment of many curious artifacts:
Old Glory emblazoned with only forty-eight stars;
a Vietnam War memorial clock, ticking incessantly;
empty beer bottles and cigarette packs, in disarray;
humongous piles of long-forgotten school assignments;
a minuscule collection of famous motorcycle models;
your polished rifles, waiting to be fired once again;
rumpled piles of recycled armed services camouflage;
a rusty machete, shrouded by its worn, canvas sheath;
inscribed cryptic words, "Born to kill", on a USMC helmet;
our graduation gift to you: a marine corps bronzed insignia.
And now,
as I often fondly reminisce about your childhood romps
through the dense, primeval forests of Centennial Ridge
while you played war games in your soldier's costume,
I stoically await your return from America's new war.