The Monsters and the Weak

The sun beat like a hammer,
not a cloud was in the sky.
The mid-day air ran thick with dust,
my throat was parched and dry.
With microphone clutched tight in hand
and cameraman in tow,
I ducked beneath a fallen roof,
surprised to hear "stay low."

My eyes blinked several times
before in shadow I could see,
the figure stretched across the rubble,
steps away from me.
He wore a cloak of burlap strips,
all shades of gray and brown,
that hung in tatters
till he seemed to melt into the ground.
He never turned his head
or took his eye from off the scope,
but pointed through the broken wall
and down the rocky slope.

"About eight hundred yards," he said,
his whispered words concise,
"beneath the baggy jacket
he is wearing a device."
A chill ran up my spine
despite the swelter of the heat,
"You think he's gonna set it off
along the crowded street?"
The sniper gave a weary sigh
and said "I wouldn't doubt it,"
"unless there's something
this old gun and I can do about it."

A thunderclap, a tongue of flame,
the still abruptly shattered;
while citizens that walked the street
were just as quickly scattered.
Till only one remained,
a body crumpled on the ground,
The threat to oh so many
ended by a single round.
And yet the sniper had no cheer,
no hint of any gloat,
instead he pulled a logbook out
and quietly he wrote.

"Hey, I could put you on TV,
that shot was quite a story!"
But he surprised me once again --
"I got no wish for glory."
"Are you for real?" I asked in awe,
"You don't want fame or credit?"
He looked at me with saddened eyes
and said "you just don't get it."
"You see that shot-up length of wall,
the one without a door?
Before a mortar hit,
it used to be a grocery store."
"But don't go thinking that
to bomb a store is all that cruel,
the rubble just across the street --
it used to be a school.
The little kids played soccer
in the field out by the road,"
His head hung low, "They never thought
a car would just explode."
"As bad as all this is though,
it could be a whole lot worse,"
He swallowed hard, the words came
from his mouth just like a curse.
"Today the fight's on foreign land,
on streets that aren't my own,"
"I'm here today 'cause if I fail,
the next fight's back at home."
"And I won't let my Safeway burn,
my neighbors dead inside,
don't wanna get a call from school
that says my daughter died;
I pray that not a one of them w
ill know the things I see,
nor have the work of terrorists
etched in their memory."
"So you can keep your trophies
and your fleeting bit of fame,
I don't care if I make the news,
or if they speak my name."

He glanced toward the camera
and his brow began to knot,
"If you're looking for a story,
why not give this one a shot."
"Just tell the truth of what you see,
without the slant or spin;
that most of us are OK
and we're coming home again.
And why not tell our folks back home
about the good we've done,
how when they see Americans,
the kids come at a run."
You tell 'em what it means to folks here
just to speak their mind,
without the fear that tyranny
is just a step behind;
Describe the desert miles they walk
in their first chance to vote,
or ask a soldier if he's proud,
I'm sure you'll get a quote."

He turned and slid the rifle
in a drag bag thickly padded,
then looked again with eyes of steel
as quietly he added;
"And maybe just remind the few,
if ill of us they speak,
that we are all that stands
between the monsters and the weak."

Michael Marks January 2006