Muzzle

Muzzle

 

It is not sleep

that calms nerves

in such a mad world,

there is no magic

on the sad side

of morning.

 

Or mourning.

Placated by slow gin

and tonic,

brown shrimp cocktail

with dry rye toast.

 

Cold feet

in lukewarm coffee,

pink lipstick

from the .99 cent store.

 

The gloom of June in July.

 

Time stands still;

unlike the bullet

from the muzzle.

 

Placed softly,

in the mouth.