Extracurriculars
In the
middle of the room we sat on dented
Suitcases,
under the light of a single swinging bulb,
Hanging
from the smoke-stained ceiling.
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 on his oily, dark leather jacket,
And he
dropped to the floor at our feet in muffled silence
Amidst the
thunderclap and ringing in our ears.
A scene
which the newspaper declared “he lost.”
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