“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
At this elevation
People have no faces.