Poetic Sensibilities
© John A. Ward

"Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt." He barked it out like a cold-blooded killer, but I could see his fingers shaking on the pistol grip. He also left the slide safety on. I just kept writing.

"Drop that pen," he said.

"Go seduce yourself," I replied.

"You don't get it," he said. "I'll kill you if you don't cooperate."

"I can't die yet," I said, "I haven't written a sestina. I've written a villanelle, but I promised myself I'd write a sestina before I died. Also, I haven't read The Brothers. I've heard that once one reads that, he or she will know everything there is to know about life. You wouldn't want me to die before knowing that, would you?"

"Shut up," he said and cocked the hammer.

"You only half-cocked it," I said. "An automatic won't go off half-cocked. You probably haven't even chambered a round. To do that, you have to work the slide."

"What do you know about it?" He asked.

"Captain, US Marine Corps, discharged 1969, fired expert with the Colt .45, sharpshooter with the M-14.Besides, you're not a killer. Killers don't use words like cooperate."

I got up from my cappuccino and walked toward him.

He pointed the pistol in my direction and pulled the trigger, but it wouldn't squeeze with the safeties on.

I kicked him in the groin, snatched the piece from his hand, ejected the magazine, tossed it in the trash, slid back the slide, checked the chamber, empty, field stripped the piece and dropped the parts on my table. "Killers
say, 'Do what I say, or I'll blow you away,' a rhyming couplet, just like that. It ain't Eliot, but it gets the job done. Now get up and get out before I lose my temper."

He crawled to the door cradling his jewels, pulled himself up with the handle, staggered out into the street and stole away.

I went back to finish writing. It's tough being a poet in today's world. There's not enough sensitivity out there. And it wasn't going to get any easier.

The Modigliani blonde in the black turtleneck, knit skirt that sheathed her legs like shrink-wrap and those black stockings with the lacework design stood up and walked over. "I've been trying to write a sestina myself," she
said. "I like the way you handled that distraction. Maybe we'd do better, if we worked together in a more intimate setting."

"That probably would get the creative juices flowing," I said. "What do you say we pick up a bottle of Pinot Noir?"

"A minx of a vine, sex in a glass, a seductive yet fickle mistress," she said, quoting Robinson, Triffon and Richardsson, rata-tat-tat.

"God made Cabernet Sauvignon whereas the devil made Pinot Noir," I added, so as not to slight Tchelistcheff.

We never got around to The Brothers that weekend, but I did learn a lot about life.

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John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can be found HERE.