Bill feels the weight
Of the gun, moves
It in the palm
Of his hand, puts
His finger on

The stiff trigger,
Raises it and
Aims. The woman’s
Fragile head would
Have exploded

Had he loaded
The gun, but he
Hadn’t, it was
Just for fun, just
For practising.

She passes by
In the busy
Sidewalk below
Unaware she’d
Been in his sights,

Her head still in
One piece, her brains
Intact. He’d put
A few women
Away in his

Time, but mostly
Men, taken out,
Targeted, by
Gun or hands or
Blown apart or

Drowned in their baths
By accident
Of course. He tucks
The gun away,
Wipes his hands on

His coat, takes out
A cigarette,
Lights it up, and
Inhales. He used
To often dream

Of having his
Father in his
Sights in deep sleep
Nights; seeing the
Fatherly head

Blown wide and all
The things he used
To say, the WASP
Thoughts, prejudices
Shot far away.

He smiles, exhales
And remembers
His mother’s kind
Ways and tender
Kisses, with her

Ignorance of
His dark work and
Killing hands and
Undercover
Days and nights, who

Knew nothing of
The CIA,
Black ops, or the
Secret wars; just
Wanted to love

Him deeply, chide
Him gently for
Not loving his
Own father or
Doing the chores.