THE TOLL OF TOY GUNS

in poetry •  7 years ago  (edited)

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The Toll of Toy Guns

Old age
slinks through
the yard
and shoots me
with bee bees.

Each copper ball
is a sting
and pushes me
backwards.

I have no defense
and my stalker
is bold.

As the distance
he fires from
shrinks
I drop
to my knees.

The welts
on my back
are fevered
like smallpox.

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Nice man!

Thanks.

Old men great

Thanks.

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