Why Is He Shooting At Me?

April 24, 2007

With the cover of this corner, I can see his face,
As they duck behind cars all over the place.
They scream with anger using words of another tongue.
They speak with blasts from their international gun.

My battle training teaches me to see the spot
On a target--not a man--where I aim the shot.
Yet oddly enough, in this pause not too long,
My mind and my thought sing a different song.

I'm from a town near Chicago, I live in a small ranch home,
I came to this city out here--I wonder where he is from?
My parents are alive, and I've got a sister and a brother,
Does he have any siblings?  How are his father and mother?

The dust that rests on my face is choking my throat,
Smoke from the burning car pains a suffocating note.
He's coughing on the same fumes, finding it hard to breathe.
Through the mist, the dirt, the action, we can hardly see.

Yet our eyes lock for just a minute and we see a man,
With pain in our eyes and tension in our hand,
The trigger is set, and the American and the Iraqi,
Asks the same question--"Why is he shooting at me?"

 

 

__________

 

 

War is a troubling and confusing thing.