Damp Red

 

So he hands me a gun

Wrapped in this childish plastic.

Itself and covered-juvenile slaughter

            Or innocent-ridden death.

The trigger is melting over my fingertips

and dripping in burgundy pools on the ground.

My feet stick-like my hand on plastic.

I flip a penny-head over tails-into the pool

            And make a wish.

 

Slowly pieces fall to the floor

And I cannot retrieve them.

He warns me to pick up the evidence

            But I stiffly cannot bend and pick up through the

            dampness on the hardwood under my feet.

 

So he picks up the gun

             And watches me fall to the ground.

 

20 May 2004