Already
I have lost
the gunslinger
of my youth.
He was
a wild boy,
hands steady.
The games
were easy,
and though
we all died,
we all knew
what sides
we were on
and there were
sides, clear-cut
if shifting. Why
does the world
grind you down
until all
that is left
is smooth,
without sharpness?
If I could
I would spoil
my own ending,
and point out,
casually,
that our guns
were plastic,
clear blue and hollow,
and no amount
of imagination
will change
what we now
hold in
our hands.
Evan James Sheldon’s work has appeared in CHEAP POP, Ghost City Review, Pithead Chapel, and Roanoke Review, among others. He is an assistant editor for F(r)iction and an Outreach Assistant for Brink Literacy Project.
