by Michael Brett
He has been here for weeks, imagining faces
In the clouds and rocks.
Oily as a wrestler, as cherished as silver,
His rifle parts snap into place
As he hears the soldiers.
The barrel is a teacher's pointer.
Over the road that irresistible history pushed
Through conferences, plans and speeches.
Now time, road and men converge at an instant.
He leans forward like a teacher of geometry.
His sights chalk the place where all lines intersect: x.
His gunshots are the sounds of envelopes being opened,
Door knockers, doorbells and telephones ringing.
~
Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/6/09 · Author's Page · Next Poem