rust and green of the bridges reflecting
the water's blue looks a little too distant
thinks of the pistol instead
eyes it over and breathes in the salt air
pulls the trigger and everything quiets
looming over the dealer still bleeding
aims to cut out a trophy as winnings
a falsehood for the bastard to brag on
cheat heads back to the coin
downs a drink and calls a hand with the bookie
stares him dead to rights
puts the eye on the table and leaves
no father should bury a son