Russian Roulette With Toy Revolvers
A bar. The red in Tim’s mother’s glass
disappears. Hit me again, she says.
A bar. Tim shall look after himself.
A blur. The tire swing replaced every summer
wets the muddy ground with its rain
soaked shadow. Tim blurs away in
his eyes. I am late. I should be there
with those underaged beers I promised.
We have toy revolvers that look like
a heady mix of black and clotted blood.