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Poem

I should have done this years ago,
after all this time he would have apologized
I felt sure.

The séance went well,
I had formed a circle of one,
just me and my sleepy cat.
I simply sat there
conjuring up left over images
on a far away dirt road.

His baseball hat squashed flat
at the back of his head,
the hole in his neck where he was
slowly bleeding out,
eyes not looking at anything now.
He took a long time to die.

I was hopeful his spirit would appear,
I felt I was being led to a wall mirror
where, ever so faintly,
and from within the glass itself
a scrawny man appeared.

He was still holding that old rifle,
still pointing it at me,
still trying to kill.

To that vague apparition I shouted:
"murderer!"

His grin was dark and devoid of regret,
his empty eyes held no compassion.
Cold words uttered
from that bullet hole in his throat"
"Apology accepted."
He spat out venomously
blood spraying from his wound.

After a while,
I loaded up a 9mm finger and just stood there
pointing it at the killer
until at last I was able to forgive the trigger
that had killed him.

However, now I often wonder
who shot who,
                    and for what?

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