We shared the sidewalk,
and he, too old for lemonade stands,
his head, so resolute it shook,
his fingers,
wrapped around the plastic gun,
his voice, too guttural
for ten years old,
shouted “Pow!”
and the arm recoiled
as I walked on past his house.
I wanted to say,
that isn’t the way it is at all.
You hear the footsteps first,
the voice is soft:
“Stop or you’re dead.”
The gun seems far too small,
winking in the streetlight.
The ring comes off too slowly,
and the boy is nervous
when he whispers
keep walking.
Too bleak and beautiful 
Hello Kat! I’ve been following your blog for probably a couple months, and I have to say it’s inspiring how prolific you are with your poetry. With this poem in particular, I love the casual, slice-of-life flow through a random experience leading into and then trailing the subtly of quite an important message embed in these lines: “I wanted to say,/
that isn’t the way it is at all.” Now, there are so many neat things to choose from on your blog, but would you be okay with me reblogging “Boy with a Gun” on mine?
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Of course! Thanks for the kind words. KC
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