Poetry

Every morning at six-thirty I sit
at that table by the window and drink
my coffee. No, I’m retired. As you see,
I can see that corner, and most days the kids
go there to wait for the bus to take them
to the high school. Usually, it’s two boys
and a girl. No, I don’t know them or their names,
but I’d recognize them. So, they stand there
talking and smoking -- whether cigarettes
or something else I don’t know, but sometimes
they shared it. And I’m thinking the boys shared
the girl too, because one day, one’s kissing her,
the next day, he doesn’t show and she’s kissing
the other. That was yesterday. Then today,
the first boy walks up and bang! bang! -- he shoots
them both, the girl and the boy, point blank
in the head, like Pacino in Scarface. Yes,
I’ll testify. But please catch the little
bastard before he finds out I’m a witness
and pops me too.