Gunpowder was not a gracious smell,
there was never a forewarning,
only an after taste,
and a smell,
and the lingering notions of healthy competition beyond the chalkboard,
my legs were tired,
and my mind was just behind,
my fingers were tingling,
and my mind was jittering aplenty,
but still afloat,
my eyes were sore from the wind,
and just when my synapses were giving way to pity,
to ubiquitous, entitled pity,
I found a way to work my knees,
to move them back and forth like pulleys and levers,
and the clocks in Modern Times,
I could do this,
I could put these parts back together,
after all,
they did not belong to the gunslinger,
they belonged to me---
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