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I see a cartridge in the gutter, maybe a .32
Or a 9mm, a typical handgun round,
And a bit of blood's still on the washed
Down pavement. Someone was murdered
Here. You can bet that he wasn't of any
Importance. No news crews have come.
The cops all are gone. The shooter, another
Anonymous schmo, is either in custody
Or on the run, to be caught in his underwear
In a motel maybe one or two hours away
From here. He'll be cuffed and tried
And sent to prison, ending a story which
Never was told, while the rest of the world
Goes on as it did. Gun makers' stocks aren't
Going to suffer, which means that I will be
Fine. I'll stay rich, and the other smug assholes
Around me will slumber like babies, assured
That such violence takes place far away,
And that there will be cops outside to protect
Them from impoverished people who murder
Each other. I'll have a brandy and sit by
The fire. I'll glance up, at times, at my
New souvenir: this cartridge I've found
On the street.


© Lawrence Beck 2022