Burning Word

Shotgun

by Mike Boyle

No new worlds left
The streetlights roar by and
the cars just stutter
while I try to remember
terminal velocity
120 feet per second?

I look at the postcards
my ex-wife sent me from
Paris
and Mexico
as the concierge nods

Someone is passing a pipe
around the backseat
I can smell it
The driver and I pass on it
200 miles to go
Driver’s knuckles are white
around the wheel
as he grinds his teeth

We’re not passing as many
body mounds today
as the past few days
and the gunfire has died down
200 miles to the ammo dump
and we’re
running short

There’s still
some hide-outs
in Mexico
she says
And I think
Maybe in the spring
If I make it

She still signs
her cards
Love,

You have left your hat but I do not trust it

You have left your hat, but I do not trust it.

Maybe the sky should be stormier, its color the color
of my hair. There is a door. There is a doorbell. You
don’t ring it. I could not lock the door against you
but I have let you hold a key. Perhaps there could be shaking
at the foundations. Perhaps some plaster could fall.
The windows are stuck but I have not locked them.
I pulled the shades down but they are broken and torn. I have
cut the phone wires to your house now. I saw you push
them back through the wall. I have turned to sleep
but I hear you pounding. There is lightning. It was thunder.
That is all.