Under the Gun

Under the Gun

The clerk does the same ol'
mopping and stocking.
Regretful of working yet another
Friday night.
Tired body, tired mind, tired life.

Two in the morning,
drunks slurp last call.
Sighing as she leans on the counter,
she ticks off the minutes til shift's end.
So quiet, very quiet, too quiet.

A bell chimes, door opens,
A tall man enters quickly.
Too late, she sees the mask and gun.
he barrels over the counter.
Too late, too late to run, too late to hide.

The money, he demands, and cigarettes.
She complies, feeling cold steel in her side.
Click--the trigger. Click. Click and again.
No pain...the gun doesn't fire.
He leaves, she cries. She's alive.