by David Gilmore

I thought Happiness could be a warm gun

So Jealousy fingered in rounds

Until no more would fit in the dirty magazine

And turned it toward me.

I knew Happiness to be a warm gun

So I grasped the barrel and cocked the hammer

Deepthroated the piece and awaited the shower,

The money shot to come.

I thought Happiness would be a warm gun

Imagine the surprise –brass ejaculate of my life’s climax flies

And the steely trigger where my flaccid finger hangs

Is colder than the blood escaping my veins.