Duty’s Shadowed Gloom

You’ve cleaned the gun
with slavish care, the same
concentric careful way you’ve
always done. The training
stays imprinted where
your thinking ceased and
runs a litany of ceaseless
inner talk – your fingers
walk familiar sets without
the need to see the pieces
fit in perfect match, the
closing of the latch, the
silky snick. You rise to
booted feet and hooded
eyes, the faces stained in
broken lines besmeared
by graphic paint. Silence
taut, the air intense, a
hunger burns, a caustic
fear erodes the guts but
there the signal starts the
move and matching parts
are met and merge in
silent dance to disappear
in duty’s shadowed gloom.
© 17 March 2007, I.D. Carswell