Saturday, 1 March 2014

The Rifle Club

had avuncular members
who pulled on beer bottles
and talked about sassy women
who were up for it.
Blondes with peachy asses
and perfect tits.

They met in his basement.
They couldn't shoot there
but they could blue
their barrels
polish their stocks
check the sights
had not been knocked.

He used to have girly mags,
you know, just in case,
but in this age of the internet
they'd been tossed away.

When the evening ended
with manly ribaldry
and clinking empties,
he turned off the basement light,

and sat in the black room,
holding his pistol in the dark.
Upstairs the tv was still playing.
He thought about taking
a walk cross town to the park.

First published in The Broadsheet Oct 2014

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