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a poem by Travis Blair


Twenty-eight months passed
before she returned to Austin,
walked down The Drag, stopped
at the University Newsstand.
She pretended to browse magazines
but her hands shook. She couldn't
turn the pages. She felt the ominous
clock tower looming behind her,
28 stories tall, its shadow falling
across her back like cross-hairs
in the scope of Whitman's rifle.

The crack of shots rang out
in her memory, the slow-motion
fall of a man, her own frantic drop
behind a curbed Nash Rambler.
She flinched at 28 rifle pops, watched
a blood-pool seep from beneath
the manís head onto a Batman
comic book. She remembered how life
faded from his eyes, how they glazed
over, unaware. It seemed forever
before help came, dragged them out,
but she remembered looking at her
watch. Only 28 minutes had passed.

© by Travis Blair
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #26 ~ April 2013