Markus Lloyd
Blue White Blue
Everyone, but me, is at work,
as office clerks and factory hands,
or out in the fields,
doing what there is to be done.
Me, I'm outback,
firing lead pellets at targets
with an air rifle I borrowed.
I'm a sweet shot,
my hits tear into the blue white blue.
I attach the targets to the shed,
to its corrugated steel.
The pellets tend to ricochet.
One ripped open my cheek
a few days ago, it required stitches.
When I'm done playing Wild Bill Hiccock,
I'll light a cigarette and park my arse.
I often consider taking pot shots
at the various birds that hang around,
but I've yet to find reason enough
to dislodge a life from its roost.
I'm supposed to be writing,
poetry, short stories, anything,
not taking hold of a slow breath,
so I can squeeze the trigger
on that breath's outgoing.
If I'd the nerve,
I'd submit the punctured targets
to a magazine, but I haven't.
I know that I'll kill a bird one day,
to see what it feels like to follow through.
as office clerks and factory hands,
or out in the fields,
doing what there is to be done.
Me, I'm outback,
firing lead pellets at targets
with an air rifle I borrowed.
I'm a sweet shot,
my hits tear into the blue white blue.
I attach the targets to the shed,
to its corrugated steel.
The pellets tend to ricochet.
One ripped open my cheek
a few days ago, it required stitches.
When I'm done playing Wild Bill Hiccock,
I'll light a cigarette and park my arse.
I often consider taking pot shots
at the various birds that hang around,
but I've yet to find reason enough
to dislodge a life from its roost.
I'm supposed to be writing,
poetry, short stories, anything,
not taking hold of a slow breath,
so I can squeeze the trigger
on that breath's outgoing.
If I'd the nerve,
I'd submit the punctured targets
to a magazine, but I haven't.
I know that I'll kill a bird one day,
to see what it feels like to follow through.
Marcus Lloyd lives in Southampton.
Page(s) 52
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