I travelled ten thousand miles to be here,
To this bed-sized scrap, to this sick land
My world has shrunk to.
I am examined every moment
By the Surgeon Explosive.
He takes my pulse.
I can feel his binocular gaze pinching me,
Running over my back, prodding me like a farmer.
Then he goes away.
Everything is quiet, but I know I am not safe.
Somewhere over the ridge, he stands in consultation
With the enemy.
They compare me to the next man, and decide.
He raises their standards.
They start to pretend to be disinterested, professional.
But as their scope cross hairs comb my hair,
I know that they are jealous
Of my cigarettes and chocolate.
Smoke is his nurse.
She grimaces, and shakes her fist before dissolving,
Before calling him.
There he is.
Over there, I can see him at work
Among the soldiers, with his scalpel-steel-