Machine Gun Kelly

           1.

spins nauseous in bed,
shirt spritzed with Copper blood,
the night's splattered memory
flashed with tommy fire.
He spies the lamp shade,
beneath which a moth
struggles toward love.
Kelly's cold brow twists;
hands revealed steel
from beneath the sheets.
He squeezes the trigger,
aims to split two wings
amid wood, plaster, glass
exploding with brimstone fire.
The moth flits across the ceiling,
a trail of neat dark holes
an inch behind.
The gun falls silent,
magazine empty,
henchmen pouring
in to save the Boss.

          2.

The maid strides between
walls fresh with plaster,
white paint patched and damp.
A cream-winged moth
clings to the window.
She raises the frame,
shoos it, starving,
toward morning's sun.
This tattered floater
flits across town
toward the green,
to lawns divided
into rows, columns
of sculpted marble.

Atop a heap of moist earth,
it finds a hundred
wilting flowers
and drinks.

Scott Speck
02/11/99