Straight Shooter

in Poetry

An old buddy died young yesterday

Left a wife, daughter, dog
Debt, doctor bills
And detractors

That old buddy phoned me midnight
Dialed with distress and disease
Calling with memories.
And markers

Old buddy to hell, I said callously
His finger on the trigger
Calibrate the guilt
He squeezed

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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