Savor Every Bite

The polished wood feels like
the edge of a shot glass between
my finger tips, my lips cracked and dry,
I crave that drink.

The only sound is a crooked door,
a horse stutter, my heart at my core.
Hot sun, hot sand, hot air to breathe
I seethe and wish this all be over.

He stands not far away,
face all gray, and hand at bay;
what does he think he has against me?
His hand trembles, troubles on mind,

I return the movement in kind:
Twitch, tickle, touch. My hand
aches to reach, aches to leach
the life from another sad soul...

but we wait--

Wait, watch, feel the polished wood,
it does no good.

But look...

like a rook in perfect place,
I read his face and with terrible grace--

Pull,
C**k,
Fire.

He crumples in like taffy paper,
just the leftovers to that sweet,
tangy moment in the heat.