Categories
Poetry

BINGO

Always carry Bingo – my imaginary handgun.
Whenever I do anything bad or wrong or stupid,
I pull out Bingo, hold his mouth to my temple; pray.
Sometimes Bingo is an actual cocked thumb
with forefinger extended. Sometimes I shout, “Bang!”
as thumb snaps, fist recoils. My head often jerks
to the left when the slug rips into my skull,
tunnels through brain, lodges in left temporal.
Always shoot myself in the right side of the head.
I’m right-handed. So is Bingo. Nice thing is, that,
unlike other guns, nobody else in the world can fire Bingo.
Bingo can never be taken away from or used against me.
Nor can Bingo slaughter a roomful of people
before finally turning on myself Bingo.
But I worry about Bingo.
Especially after dark in bad neighborhoods.
I’m contemplating buying Bingo a gun.
For those lonely nights when I’m not around.
Something could happen.
Imagine if this were not a free country
and I could not go out and buy Bingo a gun.
Such thoughts make me more than ever want to
go out and buy a gun.
Just in case something happens
to make me bingo, say, you.

Willie Smith

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