Probabilities

Wong room, locked
in. Alone
with one maniac.
And a six shooter
with one bullet.

The hammer falls hard
with a soft rush of air.
Sulfur burns in my nose,
empty chamber.
One breath, I shuffle
my feet out of range-
then a hand.  His
lightly holds the gun.
Able to end
tension, breath, time.

The second click splits
his lips and my ear.
As I slide left
away from a spirit bullet,
empty chamber in my chest.
Against a wall
I hide behind the glare
off the white tile floor.

I am the hammer-
stressed
held by a finger print
between trigger and skin
waiting to fall.
I collapse with the empty chamber.
Between my teeth
expell dusty breath.

Cocked back again by my hair,
jaw tight, tense
I crack forward
with the sound of fire.

My shoulders pull back
into position, arms out
to stop the final spirit bullet.

A coin toss each time
he pulls the trigger.
Five chances
to win,
one life left
to lose.