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The Watcher

In the doorway the security guard is jumpy.

A cold rain-rotten night in
the mouldy month of May or Maybe-not.

In the doorway the security guard is patting
his hip like he's hiding a pet beneath
the leather-look ferocity of his uniform jacket.

I'm watching from a window but he
thinks he has no audience as 
the gun is drawn out from its holster almost
post coital

like kneading dough but he's
soon enough waving it about, 
holding it close to his eye - pointing as though
the thing is demanding targets

(which, I suppose, it does).

I call Carol to come look but she wants
no part in games of war or spies.

Almost with regret
he puts it away & begins
waving his arms about.

Shadows a young woman into the video shop next door.
Two minutes.

There is a light drizzle falling &
shy drops are being impaled on the thorns of his crew cut.

Pacing up & down, flipping his hips 
then abusing an empty car obstructing the driveway.

He is not paid enough to risk his 
(or our) lives.

Then jumping on the spot, to spinning &
finally a climax with a series of quick draws

to wound
to kill
time protecting a passage
through to brightly lit,
television & the mates
free space.


Go to Les Wicks's profile to read more poems