The Quick In The Red

We had had
a volatile argument,
full of gunpowder
both of us
cat fishing
for one quick
of words, to strike.

Luckily for the two of us
our better judgments
moistened that wick.

You say I'm sensitive -
trigger happy.

I'm getting too old for this.

Some cowboys,
much younger and more fortunate
than I
can drink their whiskey
straight up
while sitting on
all kinds
of broken barroom glass.

I can barely draw,
my hand shake more
than the town drunk's,
and my teeth
are just as sensitive
as I am.

I look at them in
the mirror
as if I'm inspecting the inside
of a covered wagon
and discovering all kinds
of hidden secrets -
like you.

And like you,
I can just about
right through them.

You'd made
a pot-full of homemade
chicken soup.
Good choice.
Good for the soul -
hot as hell.

Needless to say,
my payback was a bitch.

I took one swift
spoonful and my mouth

It would be awhile before
I uttered
another word -
kind or otherwise.

Now all I can do
is keep my mouth
and wait for the rest
of the million some-odd feathers
to settle -
like fighting dust.

And although you
may have struck
fool's gold,
I'm taking out
a $1,000,000 bounty
on your head for just
one southern accent of
truth -

in your East Coast lies.

By Bryon D. Howell
...a poet currently residing in New Haven, Connecticut.
He has been writing poetry for a great number of years. Recently, his poetry
has appeared in poeticdiversity, Red River Review, The Quirk, The Cerebral
Catalyst, and The Lost Beat. Bryon is also the Editor-in-Chief of two online
poetry 'zines: The Persistent Mirage and Bringing Sonnets Back.

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