an uzi a day keeps the doctor away



he was guilty by assassination.

when accused of pulling the wool over her eyes,

he retorted, “our blanket is cotton, dear.”



he took a fast sip of sloe gin and 

held his ground like a goalie.

she told him there was no use

killing over spilled milk and besides,

bovines weren’t always divine.



he counted his dividends before they’d hatched.

when she stated that this was faulty business practice,

he remarked that sagacity was not her forte,

and he was only with her because

she was easy as a downhill run.

her opinion was quickly discarded into file 13.



she said she wouldn’t stand for this,

the truths, the half lies, the cigar stubs and midnight fires,

his disposition was as sour as the pickled vegetables

they never peppered anymore.  he told her he’d

think about adding splenda to his diet.



she put on her sexiest peignoir but he still wouldn’t budge.

he tipped his cat to her and went out to face the gray.

she called after him that his eyes were hot tubs and his

hair spun steel but his footsteps kept fanning.

he turned around once she was the size of a penprick and

said to the air, cigar stub smoking,

“babe, ain’t no one taking my sidearm away.”