A certain flicker of light
glides through the window pane
catches a soft cheek;
an eye flicks forty-four degrees
abruptly like a cigarette ash
or a leaf turning in the wind;
a mote of dust activates
a smoke detector;
a spider sets off
a motion sensor;
a human being [who
used to be a pacifist]

pulls a trigger, ends a life.

What pushes the dust mote
into the smoke detector?
Why did that particular
atomie set off the alarm
bringing fire trucks and
sirens and ladders and hoses
and men in full fire fighting gear?
What stray current of air?

The body lies silent, cooling;
the gun falls to the floor.

Curiosities continue.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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