he's just an old man... <br />working behind the counter <br />of his own small store <br />for forty years... <br /> <br />the young toughs <br />kept robbing him... <br />grabbing stuff off the shelves <br />and running... <br /> <br />threatening him, <br />and the old woman... <br />till they lived in fear <br />day and night... <br /> <br />then they went too far! <br />coming across the counter <br />and grabbing him by the collar: <br />'give me the money, old man! ' <br /> <br />quick, and sudden, <br />the gunshot rings out... <br />the young tough falls <br />to the floor in a <br />puddle of blood... <br /> <br />now the old man's going to court <br />for excessive use of force, <br />and an unregistered handgun... <br /> <br />to the halls of justice, <br />sterile and cold... <br />the stench of dignity dying <br />fills the air... <br /> <br />and the hands on the clock <br />cant be turned back!<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-own-small-store/
