Eating chocolate sandwiches at her insistence
while walking in the woods with her black dog Sixpence
the same silver coin name as my Saturday sweets
but Sixpence from the pound was found on the streets
On a clear autumn day in Texas a drone pilot sits before a screen of virtual reality
looking forward to the end of his shift and driving home along wide open roads
beneath the stillness of a late afternoon sky.
He will have a beer on his porch after working all day at targeting play,
droning on the Taliban when, by collateral default, he perhaps annihilated a workingman, woman, child or wedding plan.
“Ah but,” said the sergeant in charge, “their despicable ways of writing graffiti with the blood of a severed limb taken from the victim.”
Later, at home, the drone pilot sleeps in his corner before going to work again tomorrow and
those who will be droned tomorrow also sleep, in another corner, as do the people
who said that drones were a good idea
I saw Bill yesterday when I got off the train
Bill who played the piano for our pantos
He didn’t see me there, at the foot of the steps
It was rush hour and I said ‘Bill,’
‘Yes, hello, how’s your husband? and your daughter?’ he said, without turning
He was folding his stick down to the size of a ruler, tucking it into a pouch attached to his belt,
‘I bought this pouch after the last time,’ he said.
He meant a year ago, when I saw Bill
sitting on the bench in the station, stuck waiting
someone had nicked his stick so I walked him home.
‘You’re holding everyone up,’ said a woman.
We were standing there, at the foot of the steps, but
Bill stayed cool, he’s from the Bronx, he plays the piano