On Rooftop High, or The Sniper

 

ON ROOFTOP HIGH

 

on rooftop high above the crowded, shouting street

the sniper stands, his barrett oiled and shiny

at the ready

his itching finger twitches

a restless boot tap taps a sombre rhythm

his young eyes scan the seething crowd

first left, then right and back again

for threats to this, a pompous president

now holding forth as such are prone to do.

 

his orders are most clear and adamant

“protect the president at any cost

there are so many now who’d murder him

if give’n the dimmest chance.

and if it means that innocents should collaterally die

well that would simply be the cost

of saving him who’s leader to us all.”

 

then through his scope the sniper fixes on a girl

one hand in mom’s, the other, dad’s, he guesses,

could be his lovely niece, their kinky mops of hair

so much alike, their wide-eyed wonderment the same:

his hands begin to shake, sweat blinds him and

his knees, like rubber, palsied hands betray

the sudden knowledge that the lie

—no, many lies—that led him to this roof, this day

must serve but those who know no empathy

for dad’s and mom’s and children’s fragile lives

unless they serve their self-indulgent,

disillusioned fantasies.

 

with trembling hands removes, discards the rifle’s magazine 

and turns his scope upon the president,

who's smiling, regaling the cheering crowd below

with tributes to himself.

the sniper doesn’t hear volleys from the rooves across the street

doesn’t feel bullets tear through his uniform

the TV news conveys: "the president was saved from certain death

by valiant, sniping security guards," 

and history will record it on a page with Booth and Oswald.

But those who knew him best will say

“he’s not the first to give up life to save the innocent.”

 

Ah-CHOO!

 Facial tissues, Kleenexes—whatever you call those “soft, absorbent” paper-squares-in-a- box necessities—didn’t exist in my growing up years. We had handkerchiefs (hankies), square pieces of thin cloth that we kept in pockets or purses or tucked in under a cuff as first-aid against, particularly, runny noses. Most certainly, we didn’t throw our hankies away after a single use, as we do with tissues; we used them until we could no longer find a spot on them that wasn’t stiff with congealed mucus.  

I had occasion to look up the meaning and origin of handkerchief today. The kerchief part comes from the French couvre-chef, or “head covering.” That, too, would be a square of thin cloth and women then would, indeed, cover their heads by draping a cloth over them and tying the ends together under the chin. The dictionary tells me that kerchiefs are “...often being used as a Christian head covering by men and women of the Anabaptist, Eastern Orthodox and Plymouth Brethren denominations.” I’d dispute the inclusion of men using the kerchief except that I’ve seen tattooed men on motorcycles wearing head-kerchiefs.  

I wonder who was first to blow his/her/their nose into a kerchief, thereby raising the need for hand-kerchief to make sure the two would be kept separate. Words evolve haphazardly, and to language scholars, this one (handheadcovering) illustrates a semantic absurdity. To get past the problem, my urchin friends and I dubbed it a snotrag. But then, we never folded it neatly into a lapel-pocket accessory; that would have been a snobrag, I expect.  

Then there’s the neckerchief, more commonly called a bandana. It’s one of those entirely purposeless inventions we come up with in hopes it will make us a buck. Like the necktie or brooch.  

But I’m old now and have long since switched from snotrags, by whatever name, to tissues. Now I struggle with the ever-advancing progression of technologies. For instance, I asked AI Co-pilot to find me a poem about handkerchief. Here’s what it came up with: 

GRANDMA’S HANDKERCHIEF  

Now I hold and cherish my grandma's handkerchief, 

 It holds such loving memories and helps me through my grief;  

That little square of cotton trimmed with a bit of lace,  

Ironed and neatly folded, kept in a special place. 

 

I would have reached for my handkerchief—to wipe away tears after this reminder of the grandmother who kept a drawer full of hankies which she doled out to us at Christmas—but I don’t even own one anymore. Sad. Almost as sad as this bit of clumsy doggerel. That, too, could make an old, curmudgeonly English teacher weep.  

Pass the Kleenex box, please.