pops a clip into his handgun
presses both ears to the door
left hand taut upon the handle
waits…
bursts out
into darkness
street lamps distant
spins like cops
stroboscopic precision
one pound steel held high
two mammoth hands
sight lowered,
aimed,
trigger finger gun dog stiff…
two tiny culprits run leaving
smashed Christmas bulbs
in the street
he pulls back
grudgingly
too bad, he says,
ìtomorrow, we take our lights down.
[a prior version of this poem was published in ChangeLinks many years ago]
© 1993, 1998, 2015
by Uncle Don B Fireland Fanning
