Richard Andrews

Scarf-covered faces bend their backs

whilst your speechless shadow,

winchester in hand,

treads softly on each stair.

Breath escapes their lungs in grey plumes

and their eyes, like hooked fish, dart around the room.

They think the house is empty,

“They’ve gone away for the week”

but as the boys below slowly lift the clock

and turn towards the door,

the sharp click of your shotgun stops them

and birdshot spits from its mouth.

Innocent blood, the jury voted,

seeped across the floor.

“You wounded with intent to harm

and I sentence you to prison for life.”

Your lawyer said, “There’s something wrong.

This is simply wrong and perverse.”

“But, no, it wasn’t wrong,”

you think as you sit in your cell.

You long to return to that scene:

the pull of the trigger, those howling yells.

The judge was right. You wanted them dead.

You should have shot them in the head.