pops a clip into his handgun
presses both ears to the door
left hand taut upon the handle


bursts out
into darkness
street lamps distant

spins like cops
stroboscopic precision
one pound steel held high
two mammoth hands
sight lowered,
trigger finger gun dog stiff…

two tiny culprits run leaving
smashed Christmas bulbs
in the street

he pulls back

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

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