never fails

mention that you’re not writing poetry, and…

this, by the way, is most assuredly NOT a suicide poem. 🙂
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

revolver

in love with the potential
for the shattering, and not
always prepared to make it happen,

nonetheless you listen
holding your breath
until you hear it
turn until
it clicks into place
with a solid “chunk”
that sounds like fate.

there is a moment like that,
available and explosive,
in every life —
in some lives there are more than one.

but the way you handle the trigger
is the key to how much you’re like
the next guy:

set it down or
pick it up?

steady hand or with a tremble
in the touch?

squeeze, jerk
or pull?

and —

where do you point the thing
in case it does go off?