Target Practice

Posted on 03 November 2009

I expect a sharp crack to echo
the abandoned gravel pit but you trick me
with empty chambers, my arm jumps
and you laugh, “Don’t anticipate.” The little
.22 pistol jams, you cuss and throw it back
into the truck. “I’ll fix it later.” We move on
to the rest of your arsenal. Just as well,
the .22 doesn’t satisfy, a soft pop. Now
I am an outlaw with the .44 aimed at a renegade
milk jug. “Squeeze with the meat of your finger,
gently.” A .44 would blow a hole through you
grapefruit size, this range. I am a femme fatale
with the .38 – perfect, dense in my hand. “Exhale,
then go.” I breathe in and when I breath out
the jug flies, a startled duck.


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