shoulder your gun, dear boy, and race to the front of the line. there’s no one there who will step in time. there’s no one there who will spell your rhymes out. and so you pace wildly back and forth, back and forth, until your eyes are tired. five feet from the edge of the cliff, you dangle in space and time. now three. now two. there’s no one to stop you. and so you turn around, running. and so your hands are at your side.

shoulder your gun, dear boy, and count the lights in the sky. there’s millions upon millions reflected in your eyes. and so you look at the dotted lines, connecting them one at a time. pictures you’ve seen; photos you find.

shoulder your gun, dear boy and out with the passersby. no one to be walking but walkers in stride. no one to be listening than ears on the side of heads tilted; of dollars, dimed.

shoulder your gun dear boy.
and fire.
and miss.