deepundergroundpoetry.com

Pool Route

As is my way, I had come through the gate Indian quiet.

And there he was. Ass backin' out of my truck's passenger door.

Saw me, dropped stolen stuff and came up with a piece.

I'm thinkin' "Go ahead, get one off. It'll read better in the report" as I'm lookin' at the red dot that's halfway between chin and navel on his white t shirt.

My hand had seen that it couldn't see his and unholstered. Squeezin' the semi-auto's grip was activatin' the Crimson Trace laser.

My mind was watchin' his eyes. Inside I wasn't much carin' how things went.

One less jerk in the world-so what.

One less old guy-who cares.

But training is training and reflex is faster than thought.

So here we be. A Lauderdale alley standoff.

Two heartbeats.

Maybe he registers the size of the hole.

.45 trumps a 9, eh cuz?

Maybe he figures another time.

I don't know.

He stepped back.

I stood still.

He turned and ran.

I reholstered into concealment and checked my watch.

Not too late for a good start on today's work.

Hope it don't rain. That always makes driving dangerous.


Written by Nick (Nick Pierce)
Published
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