it’s the last saturday
of my favorite month
sitting on my front steps
reading bukowski
i heard a quick crack
and thought it was thunder
(it is quite overcast and wet today)
but then i realized it was a gunshot
some poor bastard was hoping to get lucky
hunting season has rolled around again
and everyone is out there
just over the horizon
trying to make the big score

i should be out there too
wandering, waiting
anticipating the elation
of that fatal moment
but instead i’m in here
sitting at this quiet machine
typing this somber tale
and getting distracted
by my restless cat
rusty guns, and a rusty soul
it takes practice to survive
poetry certainly won’t fill your belly
but it will feed your mind
and at this stage in the game
that seems like a fair trade to me