With shaking hands I step
to the middle of this dusty street,
careful to place the setting sun
at my back. I’ve mere thirty minutes
to draw and fire into
my slender foe.
And my aim has been less than true
these days, scattering pistol shots
through windows, writing jagged initials
in a tree, or skimming 100 shots
across the river, aiming at cans
and hitting cannots.
See, it’s really a lamp glaring
over my shoulder, and my foe
looks just like me, hunched over
a keyboard with nothing to say,
a writer in a daily showdown
with empty guns.