The 9mm Poet

The poet sat at his desk and started to write.
But first, 
he shot the cat.
Or shot at the cat.
He missed.
He shattered a potted plant instead.
Poor ficus.
He always hated that damn ficus.
Good riddance. 
He said.

Now he had to clean up the mess
before the wife got home
but she wasn’t coming home
she moved out last week. 
She got tired of him for: 

1. being a lame-ass poet - which may be redundant, 
no matter how good, published, or popular you are;
2. shooting at the cat; and
3. shooting the potted plants instead. 

That was the 7th he’d destroyed in the last month.
He figured 2 more to go before the cat’s
9 lives were up. 

What was a poet doing with a 9mm?
Weapons and despair 
aren't a happy mix. 
Who did he think he was?
Hemingway?
Edward Abbey?
He was those guys and more.
He contained multitudes
or fancied himself doing so. 

With a 9mm,
at least he could
do something dramatic
once a day. 

It only took one bullet
and the good times would roar. 

Blam!
Take that potted plant!

So there ya go.
 
By the way,
the wife took the
cat and his two
remaining lives with her.