in the green searing sea of afternoon
my gaze fixed on his black pajama clad frame
the croaking canopy of jungle shading his tanned face
( I never knew why they were called a yellow race)
my hands had followed some voiceless lethal command before
but only in faceless night
that could not only conceal my fright
but also keep me from seeing more than shifting shapes
that one could have convinced me were eyeless, thin apes
flipping the switch and popping the rounds had been no easy task
but darkness had always been a convenient mask
did he see my eyes digesting the scene if front of me?
this little man called my enemy, AKA VC or Victor Charlie?
did he have time to think of my malicious intent?
(that I would only after the fact invent)
or were his last visions not of my pimple pocked face
but of richer times in some faraway place
where he planted and played and heard simple songs
and couldn’t imagine the treacherous throngs
who would come to “save” his jungled land
but could never fully understand
why we couldn’t just leave them alone
I can’t say what his final racing thoughts could have been
but I do know that mine were deafened by the din
of my rapid rifle fire that caused his demise
and I only remember I could see his eyes