The Gorko Gazette

Water Gun

We had another argument this morning
ending with both of us threatening to

leave. Brushing the steel fence in the
backyard with a hard bristled wooden

brush, trying to remove all the stubborn
bird poop. Running all our words through

my mind, over and over, searching for
some hope. Spraying the fence with the

hose gun I bought earlier at the hardware
store. Thinking of my first water pistol.

My parents gave it to me for my seventh
birthday. I carried it everywhere I went

the whole summer. Shooting at everything
I saw. Feeling an indescribable pleasure

every time I hit a target. I notice my nosey
neighbour peeking from her second storey

window. She does this every time I am in
the backyard, and would have definitely

been listening to everything we said this
morning, already repeating it to every

other household on the street. I focus on
her old, disapproving face, behind the glass.

The suns reflection, forming a perfect target
on her forehead. I smile, point the gun,

fingers firmly on the trigger. She immediately
opened the window, screaming: DON’T YOU

DARE!!! I think about the inevitable police
visit a few moments. Feel a sudden, familiar

rush throughout my entire body. Squeezing
my fingers on the rapidly closing trigger. A

powerful jet of water explodes from the hose.
Completely soaking her outraged, furious face.

Frantically circling her room like a wet dog
trying to escape the rain. Her screams louder

than any argument me and Sarah ever had. On
a winter’s day, I could swear was summer.

---

Against the Odds

Poem number three this Wednesday
afternoon following over two
weeks drought. Thinking of the
great forty-six-year-old
Filipino fighter (who was born
one day before me), scoring
a majority draw with the
far younger, undisputed, double-
champion, a few days earlier
ensuing a brutal, twelve round,
timeless war. Battling the
proud, dangerous, Mexican
champion. Boasting height, reach,
size, youth, mind-blowing skill.
Though losing in the majority
of viewers eyes that day:
including mine. An ageing,
unwanted poet. Still running more
than twenty miles a week. Six
hundred push ups, one hundred
and five sit ups a couple of hours
earlier, after yet another endless
shift at my tiresome blue-
collar job, to pay the bills. Sinking
tall cans of cheap American
whiskey and cola, while Luciano
Pavarotti, Maria Callas, and
Jimmy Morrison, dent the thick
impossible walls. Over twenty
years the underdog. Scoring yet
another unlikely victory.

---

ABOUT THE ARTIST

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Image: Campionatele Europene de Box din 1969. Bruno Facchetti (Italia) și Ion Covaci (România)