Gunplay

by

Thomas Michael McDade

After sawing
the branches,
I let the dogwood
stand for a week
as if a family member
might claim the trunk,
find a will in cells
the blight forgot.
Recalling its showy days,
I consider the legend
of Christ’s wounds
living in each flower.
Axing the roots,
I expect gushing blood
but there’s only an urge
to plant a tree
that will not die
so conspicuously.
I save a length
to carve and whittle
a cane for my father.
But he dies and I was never
much at woodwork anyway.
So, I carry my relic stick
walking in the name
of fitness.
Aiming at
the Roman helmets
streetlamps wear
I squeeze a trigger
my saw left.
Banging my weapon
on the blacktop
for delayed
gunshot noise,
sometimes I feel
like an old man
demanding sunrise.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Hope Is Alive And Thriving
by: John William McGrath III
from: Mesa, AZ, US

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