Changed my prints, moved eleven
times, learned to blend in with the crowd.
But there’s always something coming, no matter how good you get at
looking over your shoulder.
In my front pocket, I worry the
rosary of two copper-tipped bullets. At 42ND St., a man with a scar
scrawled across his forehead approaches.
As he nears, his fog-gray eyes meet mine. I'm dead certain I can hear him ticking.
"Don’t be ridiculous," I reassure myself, "bombs don’t tick."
Appeared at Short, Fast, and Deadly in 2013
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