Leave the Ivory in the Field

There are lions here
worth shooting.
What they live in's
called a pride.
Watch them bleed out
on the prairie
down the block
from where we met.

Chug that second cup of coffee.
Polish nickel-plated steel.
Mercy always has a limit.
It ends where self begins.

On that bench there is a bounty.
Those thighs contain a lie.
The mailman carries secrets.
Extortion pays the bills.

There are loveless
forms of chocolate.
Probation's not parole.
This lion rifle's rusty
but the cartridges don't notice.

Currently reading:
"Good Prose" by Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd.

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