So the War is a Collectible

What a strange surprise
it all was, ending up
here I still remember
scrimshaw.
Not forthcoming but somehow
handmade, ornate,
plainly executed
with extraordinary skill.
We had a neighbor
with technical skills
predictive in nature,
the way he brought
the right things home
each time - the goat meat
to the working girls.
Where were these that year?
How many times had we spoken?
With robotic self-centers
entitled to myths,
while poets around
the world were
obscuring - rewriting
then obscuring again,
we were running,
crouching defending
and cramming. While
the rest was up-ending
we were soul searching
and blame-laying, observing
from the roof
at regular intervals, checking
for patterns in the muse.
On the balcony jets left
with threats and promise.