Playing Guns
We played guns in the backyard, taking cover in the suburban rubble of rusted water heaters, broken bicycles, and empty cattle trailers. Our orange-tipped barrels targeting each other with naive fingers pulling crescent moon triggers until caps snapped, the smell of burnt matches. And then the screams of who won: who was alive and who was dead? Time pushed its palms against us, dividing friends as it likes to do. He would play guns in Afghanistan, clearing houses in the heat