his clothes were folded out before him,
impeccable, recently washed, no creases.
a stark contrast to the dirty heap
he used to keep under his bunk overseas.
he began to dress with the type of precision
one can only get from years of service,
of being expected to drop everything
and do what one was told.
his shoes were black, shining, spotless,
not crusted with the blood of a local
whose head he'd been commanded to boot
because he'd tried selling gay porn to the C.O.
the gloves he wore now were white, immaculate,
covering the scars and calluses that mark
countless interrogations of foreigners,
of young boys and their mothers, innocents.
fully dressed, a man of honor, he draws his gun,
each part cleaned mere hours ago, also perfect.
he pulls it up to his temple, a sort of mock salute.
finally finding himself on the receiving end, he pulls the trigger.
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