Trigger
My gut is two-thirds bile and the rest penicillin and wine.
Outside, a truck backfires. I don't jump this time.
This was not my best idea; I'll give you that,
but it could've been worse.
I could be my father,
with a taste for rotgut beer
and a temper,
and a gun.
Lock, stock, and barrel.
About this time of year, I guess.
Daddy crawled out the bottle,
and then crawled all over with fevers and bugs.
Took out a rifle.
Put it in my hands.
About this time of year,
I crawl into my own bottle.
I lie at the bottom and wonder:
What if I had pulled the trigger?
T.A.B. 4-6-13
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