First light strikes the old man with cobwebs in his eyes.
He’s had enough wildfires, covid and Afghanistan follies,
So he cocks his gun and squeezes the trigger from the cheap seats
Where he sees but never hears the leaping prima ballerina
Land en pointe.
There’s applause but is it in front or behind the explosion?
He gropes for a hot cup of coffee, unsure if he’s made it.
Maybe he’ll drive the car later,
Or, at least remove the cobwebs.
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