Even, now
The boys on the street ran with pellet guns
cul-de-sacs mirrored in their wild eyes wet
noses sycamore seeds lodged in their hair
gravelly knees forefingers tucked tight around
triggers like they’d been taught to hold
weapons they’d shoot you if you were playing
or not two shots to the knee a hot red colon
and wet hot tears under the living-room light.
In the blue-black wash of teatime I watch the
gunmen run by even now the rush of it grows
like lust in their eyes shorts half-falling down
around their scuffed calves pellet guns stuffed into
their waistbands turns to sticks to tin cans to stones
til they turn and run home beating at the back gate
burning full far too tall to play with toy guns
now far too lost in the thrill of it to know.