David Hines (hradzka) wrote,
David Hines
hradzka

APED: "the assassin"

He's traveled round the world, a time or two.
He's seen the highest, and he's met the low.
The same old shoes, although their soles are new.
The same old suitcase, same old battered pro.

And the rifle fits just where he's always put it,
the felt-lined case holds everything secure.
And it's heavier, these days, but he goes on, anyway --
the final stages of his last world tour.

Forty years ago, he was young -- forever, so he knew,
the rifle light enough to tote all day.
For pay he killed some Africans. An Asian man or two.
And some white men when they couldn't pay.

Times change, and so do clients, and the victims do themselves.
The men he shoots are mostly white and brown.
He doesn't need the money, but he takes it. Might as well.
He rarely spends a night out on the town.

He has no home to speak of. It's just a leather grip,
the inside made with care and lined in felt.
The bullet he took long ago grates against his hip,
as he goes on to play the hand he's dealt.

And the rifle fits just where he's always put it,
the felt-lined case holds everything secure.
And it's heavier, these days, but he goes on, anyway --
the final stages of his last world tour.
Tags: a poem every day
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