Sniper

At my position on the sidewalk,

camouflage of socks and tie.

Sarcasm loaded for when

the target walks by.

My humor cuts deep like a knife.

They walk away, thinking they got away.

Only later they know they’ve been shot.

Or else my bullet points haven’t penetrated

the armor they wear.

The mind is a terrible weapon fully loaded.

That’s why, in Mexico, you have to be careful 

what you say.

They’re all on hair triggers down here.

Is it the poverty or the chaos that makes them that way?

Politeness is not just convention.

The wrong word can get you killed.

It almost happened to me.

I’m a benevolent assassin.

I pick my targets carefully, smiling

sweetly at those that are ready to blow.

That’s why I’m accepted in this standoff.

These words are target practice for me,

shooting into the void.

If they happen to hit you, you got in the way.

They don’t kill, but they might hurt or raise a smile.

My ammunition works both ways.

Lots of duds in the cylinders though…my aim is

good, but the words are hit or miss.

I shoot anyway.

No telling what, if anything, my silver tongued

bullets might hit.

I can’t help what I do.

There’s a contract out on all of you.