| They
say this game’s fixed.
Hand me any rifle,
I’ll
split a bull’s-eye every time.
Guys who want
a
prize for their girl skew their aim.
The trick’s
not
to trust the sights:
they’re bent
with
too much use.
In Game Alley I can tell
winners
by their walk--not toward anything
but
through--the air sure as the dusty midway.
Practice
won’t bring them close as knowing
nothing’s
fixed, everything’s target--the black
center
staring back like a pock-marked eye.
|
