©2012, Olan L. Smith
He has not fired one;
Be three, be four Clyde has six to lay you on the floor
Click—five shots, evens a score,
And when he does you'll find yourself undone.
You didn't count on this windy draft—
Your aim soars to the left—
It spoils your endeavor. You are bereft,
For squeezing the trigger is his craft.
You were anxious firing here and there
Clyde calmly draws his sidepiece
He is mindful and at peace
Knowing you will no longer breathe air—
His bullet speeds, spinning in death—
His shot is between your eyes—
He strides past your corpse to surmise—
You gasp a final breath.
CZYTASZ
Older Poems from the Pen of Olan L. Smith
PoezjaThis collection is a gathering of most of my older poems, both published and unpublished, making it easier to find my poetry.
