11 May 2009
The moment you step out the door
you're at war, right hand in right pocket
of an oversized black leather jacket
you wear like Marine body armor,
or a gunfighter's coat, walking
the dusty roads of a frontier town,
looking for trouble, being quick
with the pocketed .22.
Nobody knows you,
but everybody knows
that look on your face:
nihilistic hatred congealed:
the emptiness, the void,
the loneliness, the need.
You don't play.
You don't run.
You don't scare.
You don't cry.
You don't lose
of the warrior is the way of death:
like Clint in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
Eleven years old,
you and your crew
on the playground.
© 2009, Satya J. Gabriel