Gunfight In Manhattan

Every day I wake to small arms fire
a slingshot away.

The crackle of .50 cals
boast of hidden talents,
remind me to breathe again.

When Ma Deuce
screams her nightly shrill,
she feels me down and up
with cold steel hands,
pushes her way inside and lays
her muzzle against my aching brain.

I forget who I am until red hot flashes
remind me. Tonight,
I’m going home
where the sound of gunfire
means someone just had dinner.