On the Run

Anthony Liccione

I once knew a man,
who couldn’t stand
to see Time on the run,
being a two-timer
with a fistful of anger
he ran for his pistol,
stocked blind in the closet.

With an aim, named Glock
and a cock or two he shot
the clock stagnant on the wall,
and before it felled seam,
it let out two-chimes it seemed
and died with a dimmer to tell.

And though it was sad to see
outside the river and trees
flowing and falling in unison,
birds flapping their wings and
children ring-around-the-rosy
singing, told the old-timer
that Time hadn’t done stop.

And when that thought fail
he choked back his tears
for he had many years
sitting in awful resent—
so he pulled out his gun and shot
at the noontime sun that stood,
staring back with bite, knowing soon
it will turn night and blood moon.

Well, son-of-a-gun, he said
gaunt with a frail-hump back
and arthritis conquering bones,
he sat in the middle of his home
hammering out thoughts in mind—
deciding to use reverse psychology
to sate, counting backwards from
twenty back to one,
and he pulled the trigger a last time
against the gray of his head.