Ghost Shooter

Today, sitting in my bar,
I read about the Parkland shooting,
student desks tombstones.
I turn around, glance at the entrance,
a gunman, like a spectre, blasts in,
the room swims in blood, more shots blast off,
people scream, dive behind tables, fall to the floor.

I close my eyes, shake inside,
until my head clears, the vision retreats.
No ghost, no shooter.

In my long lifetime, I’ve felt safe,
unlike Hickok, never felt my back
couldn’t be turned from the door,
at sedate art galleries, myriad churches,
wild rock venues, raucous football games,
staid libraries, all my schools.

I slowly sip my drink,
peek around, the jukebox blares,
tinkling glasses and laughter.

Maybe somewhere else
that night, not a ghost.