Buckshot
Gunpowder
Its smell hangs sweetly in the air
Shotguns lay silent
Waiting
A disc of orange
Flying away from me
Trying to escape
No!
Hell no!
You go nowhere!
The gun recoils, hits my shoulder
The blast reverberates through my body
Then there is almost nothing
But the orange flecks dancing and falling in the sky
I have won
This time
© Copyright Peter Lugo 2002
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