“Propellant” by David S. Pointer

Hemingway’s shotgun
is still out there
 
like a sniper’s rifle
like a forward-positioned gun
 
you weren’t expecting
casualties on your computer
 
emotionally stumbling
through the solitude
of cyberspace
 
needing another drink
to neutralize the threat
of a dry throat
 
realizing a future writing
reputation has been delivered
on a bipod of raw talent
 
on a temporary billet
of writer’s block
 
as the petrochemical
fumes further complicate
 
the walk over
open carpet
 
out of position
at the cocktail cabinet
 
with enough velocity
to lift the elevation turrets
of autopilot
 
learning center black
is leading you on
 
your first
internal ambush

(Recent poems of David S. Pointer have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Labour of Love, and The Beatlick News.)