Carl Wade Thompson PhD is a poet and the graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. His poetry has appeared in The Concho River Review, The Mayo Review, The Blue Collar Review, Anak Sastra, Blue Marinet, Cenizo, and Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas.

Bad Shot

The shot was not clean.

Angled like the sun,
the bullet traveled flat
—-a dime—
reaching out, hammered,
like only Winchester can.

Slanting, through heart,
lungs, the inner greasy coil
left cut like a ribbon
at the finish line.

The buck ran before
life, that beautiful,
intangible thing, left
to blood
and brush.

I have killed, but
don’t feel—Nothing.

Gun cradled I walked slow,
to see dead eyes,
soft brown marbles,
the gaze from beyond,
staring up.

“Beautiful, ain’t he?”
Said Uncle.

Galaxy Days

The streets are empty,
Bangkok Saturday-quiet,
only farang walk about.
All Thais are inside watching,
Khaosai win by liver punch.