Hitman

The winter breeze numbed his hunger but not the bullets
That lined the pocket hidden deep on his side all metal
Bearing bombs cradled in a peaceful slumber like pullets
Waiting for the egg to fall the cock to call the cum cumall
The opportunity to hatch !bam! in the head of the quarry
And to flee with empty pockets but a bird in the hand
That’s worth two corpses in the neon bush they queerily
Dance on and drink on as if the music don’t die, the band
Played in the evening news and the next morning papers
First the dance, second the wake and third the vespers.

Reed thin man shopping for ammo, sitting amongst friends
Of his victims, picking flowers to lay at the doorsteps
Where he had walked in and out of for just a few seconds
Of carnage and carnival, like the president’s speech preps
For bombing at your daughter’s wedding, quite nonchalant
Or perhaps motivational, coaxing applause from the public
Each time a drone hits a target in the desert, such scant
Regard for life traverses a spectrum of morality that which
Makes this corpse uglier than the other, the hitman’s pocket
Is deep with bullets cast in the many names of no regret.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Tuesday, June 28, 2016

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