Drop

pistols in the dirt
heating my earth
methodically,
ominously
wishing through a scope
until they dare
come for me
with too many chips
on my post
I let the ringing speak the most
when they come close,
peeping the throne and
ignoring the bones, and
readings everywhere, and
the odds are scarce
they shouldn’t have bet
on my despair,
it flares

– B. Brown

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