The Soldier
He stole a gun last night,
a telescopic rifle made for hunting.
From a sixth floor window overlooking Main
he thinks, 'how cool!' that the 'scope brings
the people on the street so close and focused.
He spends all day breaking down the gun
and re-assembling it,
polishing each part until it gleams.
He fits the telescope,
lifts the weapon to his shoulder
for just another look.
He'll bide his time until it's rush hour.
The streets will be teeming with people
making that last minute dash to get
last minute presents for Christmas.
The time has come, his palms are moist.
In the cross-hairs a Salvation Army captain,
a pregnant woman on a cell phone,
an old man struggling with his walker,
and children, lots of children.
A half-hour passes.
He slowly lowers the rifle
and puts it back into its case.
Another half-hour passes
and he stumbles down the stairwell
to the street, his mind confused and torn.
Crossing a bridge he stops
to hurl the case into the river.
He wanders slowly home
to his studio apartment,
his haven of forgetfulness,
his pressed and perfect Ranger uniform,
and wonders why he just cannot stop crying.
He stole a gun last night...
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2008
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