Too Hot To Handle

“Those are gunshots,” Len said,
pouring me another bourbon.
“How often do you hear them?”
“In New Orleans, every week.”
“How’s your bourbon?”
“Good,” I said.

A bullet pierced the window
and shattered my glass—
like a line of poetry
straight to the heart.

“That’s a good line,” Len said.
We both chuckled.
A few more shots rang out.
We went back to watching
an old Jayne Mansfield film,
Too Hot To Handle.

Assault on Silence

Outside Detroit’s Orchestra Hall
I had a smoke and chatted
with the security guard
when gunfire erupted.

“Those aren’t musical instruments,”
he said. They were getting closer—
like a drive-by staged
on a rolling film set.

We stepped back inside.
The orchestra had fired
round after round
until out of ammunition.

A dead audience,
still in bloody clothes,
stood to applaud
this assault on silence.