We are hardly friends, mere colleagues
but I grow sick over your suffering,
ache at the thought of the wound-
cold metallic taste of the bullet now lodged in your throat like you swallowed it down.
It didn’t crack that hard skull of yours
because you were not yet meant to go.
You could have been gone, you know.
He shot to kill, his aim dead on, but you
somehow dodged that bullet, I’m told.
You somehow got lucky. No. I don’t call it luck at all!
You took one right between the eyes,
probably blinked once and it was over-
the worst anyway.
A 357 shot at point blank range and you, one of few,
will live to tell your tale another day.