An Accidental Death
In the middle of the room we sat on dented
Suitcases, under the light of a single swinging bulb,
Hanging from the smoke-stained
A glinting gun, with a trigger never
Before squeezed, was placed on a torn
Card table stolen from the local bar.
It was his game, so he grabbed
The cold metal first.
He handled it between his
Sweaty hands as if it was a familiar tool.
We looked on in a haze that matched the heat of
The afternoon as our senior spun the metal cylinder until
It settled on a single chamber with a final click.
Maybe we pleaded as the barrel pressed itself
Into his pale temple, but the unexpected look in his bloodshot
Eyes held us at a distance with their sudden brightness.
Pieces of him were scattered all over his possessions,
And he dropped to the floor at our feet with a limp thump.
A scene which the newspaper succinctly declared as“he
lost.”
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