Willie Smith


Always carry Bingo – my imaginary handgun. 
Whenever I do anything bad or wrong or stupid, 
I pull out Bingo, hold his mouth to my temple; pray.
Sometimes Bingo is an actual cocked thumb 
with forefinger extended. Sometimes I shout, “Bang!” 
as thumb snaps, fist recoils. My head often jerks 
to the left when the slug rips into my skull, 
tunnels through brain, lodges in left temporal.
Always shoot myself in the right side of the head. 
I’m right-handed. So is Bingo. Nice thing is, that, 
unlike other guns, nobody else in the world can fire Bingo. 
Bingo can never be taken away from or used against me. 
Nor can Bingo slaughter a roomful of people 
before finally turning on myself.
But I worry about Bingo. 
Especially after dark in bad neighborhoods. 
I’m contemplating buying Bingo a gun. 
For those lonely nights when I’m not around. 
Something could happen.
Imagine if this were not a free country 
and I could not go out and buy Bingo a gun. 
Such thoughts make me more than ever want to 
go out and buy a gun. 
Just in case something happens 
to make me bingo, say, you.   

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