Dinning Out

Posted: November 19, 2014 in Poems, The Troubled Scribe's Scribbles

Gourmet food, chicken fried rice, and a medium steak.

An empty wine cup teeters on the table ledge.

Screams and shouts, upturned chairs.

Except for mine.

Bullets spray, glass shatters. Freeze.

The soy sauce never tasted so good.

Crimson splash, blood or wine? Freeze.

Still no movement.

“Get on the ground.” Freeze.

“Get out your money.” Freeze.

More gun shots and screams.

Blood not wine.

No watching him grow up.

No more laughter and smiles.

No more holding her hand.

No longer aging, no longer…

The bullet never missed.

Only their faces circling.

I don’t want to forget them.

I don’t want to leave them.


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