Prose Bits

In a country of small beers & pocket knives
his heart rolls with the dice whenever he hits the streets.

They watched the missing like a hawk.
Then they denied she even existed.

He who thinks this is a country of memory
refuses to remember the number of those who have perished.

Madness is a refuge at a time when murderers roam the countryside.

Assassins carry the picture of Christ in their wallets & cross themselves
whenever they pass by a church.

The contract killer has an impeccable work ethic
he sees to it the job is done perfectly.

The wife intuits it in her heart he’s a good man:
She cannot smell the gunpowder in his hands.

When the old woman felt something beyond formal logic & theological verities,
she smiled at the news of the killings that the children had finally fled to the hills.

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