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