It is like a dance in which
we take turns taking the lead,
she giving me credit
for a photo I’ve taken,
while I give her credit
for one of hers I use,
the whole time I try to ignore
the cold feel of the 45 magnum
she has pressed up
against my temple,
telling me if I bother her again
she’ll shoot
documents sent to warn me,
accompanied by a note to say
she’s also given them
to a law enforcement official
in case I don’t,
while I wonder, just who
put this idea into her head,
loading the gun with bullets
I know will destroy me
if I do anything other than
what she say,
the niceties of the dance
painfully mocking me
as we go through the motions
of pretending all is back
to what it was
when in fact it’s
my back against the wall,
she giving me credit for picture,
only not the picture she hates me for taking,
she saying: “Don’t move or else!”
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