Staring down the street
framed in high-contrast light like a faded sign,
a blur to my eye
that makes me wonder if it's shared,
I watch a man advance towards me from the bus stop.
He wears an old fishing hat, pale as paper,
whether I mean him or that hat, I don't really know.
As he gets closer, I realize that with every step
he is slowly crumbling.
He gives me a look
that lives somewhere between desparation and apology
as first his leather shoes
and then his ankles
fall to sand.
He speaks, a thread so fine
it barely winks in the sepia glare,
"All you have to do is hold me,"
and his lip trembles with tearless fear.
His eyes grow impossibly blue when I grab his arm like a greeting
and he slides on me like an oil tattoo,
then into me without struggle -
visible just barely under my skin.
I carry him with me to my car
mumbling, mumbling,
"If only you'd stopped walking.
Nobody had a gun to your head."
From inside myself, I hear,
I am the gun.