Sniper

I am always aware when James polishes his brass,

Those slender metal messengers of death,

Lined up beside him on his army cot.

Why do you polish what no one else will see?

Because they’re a source of pride to me.

And what about conscience, Jim, I say?

 

What about it, he says to me?

Without anger, malice, or mercy, said he,

I shoot at whatever target may be,

A flutter of yellow in a field of green,

A movement in shadow where none should be.

If things were reversed they would shoot at me.

There may be blood and shouts of pain,

To me, Jim says, it’s all the same.