It was a game, 
	a game of skill.
They set up targets,
	boards with circles,
	bottles on fence posts,
	sometimes even empty beer cans on rocks,
Making the possibility of a ricochet,
Adding excitement, 
	challenge.

They were sharp-shooters, 
	craftsmen in their trade.
Their aim was
	controlled,
	directed by skill,
	perfected by practice,
Practice provoked by necessity,
		need for reputation,
		need for recreation,
		need to hurt,
			need to kill.

He entered the game as an apprentice,
		having no control,
		no skill,
		not enough practice,
And the lack of a necessity 
	for
		reputation,
		recreation,
		only the need
To keep from being hurt, 
	from being killed.
		Self-preservation?  
		Self-defense?
A matter of 
	learn to kill 
		or 
			be killed?

He had messed around with the game a little before,
	missed his targets,
	got hit by a ricochet bullet,
	and was pushed out
		by better players,
		with straighter aims,
		and an urgent need
			to win.

When he finished firing, 
	his gun shook.
When he left a target, 
	it was clean, 
		untouched by piercing bullets.

He had no skill,
	no control,
		no practice,
			and besides
He was too much afraid of the instruments of the profession
To make it 
	a vocation.

So
	when they found him,
	his gun in his hand,
	a question in his eyes,
	his mouth opening and closing
		with no words,
They
	figured he'd finally hit a target,
	or his gun had backfired,
	or another ricohet had caught him.
So
	they
		rushed him to the doctor
Who
	removed the bullet
And
	covered the gaping hole in his chest
		with a band-aid,
Not knowing
	the target had
		fired back
And the doctor
	had
		removed his heart.

And so they continued,
	firing blazing guns,
	destroying paper, tin, wooden targets,
And with each bullet
	fell
		an empty shell
And with each shell
	he rebuilt
		a portion
			of his heart,
'Til one day
	the doctor
		welded them together
		and removed the band-aid
And the players
	pronounced him
		a gunman.