BY DR. AGONSON
Don’t make me do it, man, don’t make me shoot you dead.
The hammer’s cocked; the barrel’s hot against your head.
And all silenced in one dread noise: The gun explodes,
my friend is gone, and from his skull rivers run red.
My hand shakes violently; my bowels wax weak.
My eyes, upon the corpse, some movement seek.
The hopeful thought, repentance, stings and goads:
No change will come. Our life is rather bleak.
Some chilling drafts over me flow,
and cold, outside and in, I grow.
So this is my damning crossroads,
the path down which I now grow old.
Nor song nor dance nor play
will in some future day
expunge this episode
and my dark shadows slay.
far from myself,
and down this road