Extracurricular

In the middle of the room we sat on dented

Suitcases, under the light of a single swinging bulb,

Hanging from the smoke-stained ceiling.

A glinting gun, with a trigger never

Before squeezed, was placed on a torn

Card table, stolen from the local bar.

It was his game, so he grabbed

The cold metal first.  He handled it between his

Sweaty hands as if it was a familiar tool.

We looked on in a haze that matched the heat of

The afternoon as our senior spun the metal cylinder until

It settled on a single chamber with a final click.

Maybe we pleaded as the barrel pressed itself

Into his pale temple, but the unexpected look in his bloodshot

Eyes held us at a distance with their sudden brightness.

Pieces of him were scattered on his oily, dark leather jacket,

And he dropped to the floor at our feet in muffled silence

Amidst the thunderclap and ringing in our ears.

A scene which the newspaper declared “he lost.”