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.