In a reach for ways out,
he hunches over a yellowed book,
nicked pages symbols of over-use
and reads with silent lips.
Still as sleep, he barely breathes,
attentive for a whisper in the air
to guide, caress him with an answer.
It comes, first faint like raindrops
then pulsing like an aching pain.
Dust scatters at his feet, disturbed by movement
as he scoops the gun from its rusty rack.
Anointed by an ill wind that lied
into his searching ears, and warped
by a will too strong, the voices screeched
relentlessly until a shot was heard.
Rain drizzles over a huddled mass.
(For more by Alice Shapiro’s “Life” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or amazon.com.)