I always imagine him turning at the door,
looking for all the world
like the star of his own gangsta video,
aiming his gold-plated Glock
straight at my heart.He shoots,
and I know
you’re not supposed to
ever die in your dreams,
but, I’m sorry if my dreams don’t comport
with your narrow conception of reality.
For there I am
bleeding on the linoleum
between a trashcan and file cabinet,
a tall stack of ungraded papers
waterfalling
on top of me.
And my students?
Too busy taking selfies,
playing games,
listening to music
to ever anachronistically dial
9-1-1.
For more on Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue, please see our Authors page.
Amarillo Bay 