Right after the war, and after an evening of dinner, dancing,
and a budding romance, it being still early, I tucked away
to a semi-respectable District of Columbia bawdy house –
Not for more sex, but for poker, for cards, to wager, to bet,
to deal. And that I did, and the game seemed straight and
while my cards weren’t great, I was leaving that house with
house money. And feeling somewhat obligated I agreed to
see a working honey home. Advised about a taxi stand a
neighborhood block away, that lady and I began our milk run,
a saunter racing the sunrise.

But what I can’t rhyme or reason. Is why the kid with the gun
didn’t pull the trigger. Why he laughed along with his buddies,
when I remarked that no self respecting gangster would be
caught dead with a weapon of such pipsqueak pygmy potency.

He could have been fifteen. Maybe sixteen. I had just turned 22.

I don’t know what this is. A Prose Poem or “Flash Faction.” Whatever it is, it’s number 4 for April 4, 2019.

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