Rifle In Cobweb

I ran for the rifle

the one covered in cobwebs 

and childhood memories

as he fell onto you. 

In my return, 

I searched, 

but your body 

was not here. 

I remain, 

in vain or in hope, 

I haven’t the mind to determine. 

which. 

A screech

pierces through the trees.

His reemergence 

will curate his demise. 

If the neighbors

weren’t perpetually drinking

on their widow’s walk, 

I would shoot him as he glides.

Michael Carney