That poor poor woman
We met the day she shot me
In the dairy aisle
Or, rather, in my ankle
Which was in that aisle.
I was fortunate she missed
At least mostly missed
And that she only had birdshot
And she was far away
Cowering behind spoiled milk
What was left of it.
She did not answer my cries
And for a moment
I feared They had taken arms
Were now on the hunt
Until I heard her sobbing.
Only a flesh wound
It seemed I could walk on it
I shouted, "I'm leaving!"
The faint reply came,
"No, please, not you too. Please! please..."
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