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.”