Lucky Number Seven
A poem about mental illness
My grandfather nearly lost house wife kids Friday afternoons paddling through smokers’ fog sitting at red and black betting on green.
His hand felt empty coming home to Reno from the army’s tender care (bullet in the gut) so he filled fingers with a Colt Lightweight Commander semi-automatic chocolate bar grips. It carried seven rounds (lucky number seven).
It must have been lucky he never fired it once at an intruder until one snuck into his brain intent on overcoming his last defense.
Instead, he shot it killed that fucker dead with his lucky number seven.
