Raptor

.

“The traffic was murder this morning”

He said, adjusting the gas strut of his over-padded chair,

Punching in his password whilst

three thousand miles away the drone tunes to his direction.

.

He is surgeon,

Slicing clinically into canker

He is justice with a joystick

He is freedom at the press of a blood-red button

He has the wings of a dove and

Carrion claws of a vulture.

He takes his coffee black

With no sugar.

.

The screen throws green reflections at his designer glasses

The other side of the world lies dark

But still this unblinking eye in a moonless sky

Scans for movement

Waiting to unleash risk-free

Mechanical malevolence

.

At this elevation

People have no faces.