Guerrilla

AK47s lie awake under pillows.
It’s more than a dream can stand.
Enemy soldiers bursting through the door.
Even your own man turned traitor,
his rifle pointed in the direction
from which he came.
It all could turn to bullets flying any moment.
There is no real sleep,
just these scattered bits of unconsciousness,
shrapnel taking its lead
from hate and fear,
those favorite tropical diseases.
The bigger the gun,
the larger the rationale,
says the local wise man,
the one now hanging from a tree.
Life is where the rest of us
are abandoned, left to die,
adds another.
He’s selling out his tribe, even now.
It’s a wretched night, as always.
Jungle heat sucks up the kindness.
Bird screech absolves all guilt.
Lions feast on the sick, the lame.
Hyenas howl where this is heading.
And a head feels the barrel pressing,
the trigger shaped and ready to be pressed.
Next morning, gun and man unite at the hip.
The world is overweight with tension.
But it’s death that gets the exercise.