Contract Labour

You wonder why they do it, for so few dollars,
those People’s Army marksmen, but still they slip
across the border with revolver, Kalashnikov
you call the tune – to end the disturbance
 
from whoever you say, however you like:
snipe from a distance, point-blank to the nape,
machine-gun hail. Devils take passers-by,
who had it coming: temple sticks showed.

For some, it’s the mistress, high maintenance,
an elegant automobile, fleets of fast shoes,
a private school for secret kids,
freedom from debt and dishonour;

for others just discipline, a violent raft
to cling to in times of uncertainty
when yesterday’s gods are dead,
tomorrow’s still treacherous as quicksand,

and a man relies on his personal demons,
his skill, his cool, two steady hands,
clear vision, well-rehearsed vanishing act
after the bitter moment of revenge on the world.

And then forgetting, a journey back or away,
contractor satisfied, fee paid, laying low, incognito
amid Socialism with Chinese Characteristics, dissolving,
until the next call to kill for the enemy.