Love. That loaded word. The sound a revolver makes. A revolving door's sweeps that push candy wrappers out and keep the conditioned air in. The sound double dutch makes when the rope scrapes the ground and sneakers bite against cement to rubber sole, beating the time to jump in. The rattle rattle of empty chamber flow and the carousel clicking toward and away from the tunnel with a primer. A revolver. Sitting on sun beaten iron tracks with a flattened penny, warm, in a palm and the bristle breeze breaking the silence the way a freight line might from one mile beyond the bend an eye can see. The sound a revolver makes. Orange moon, low and full, near the eastward hills reflected on parking lot windshields yesterday a year ago. Squawking door hinges unfixed. Doors scarred further, collecting efforts. Love that loaded word. The sound a revolver makes, heavier. The same windshields. The same orange moon. It is not a breeze. The penny is scorching hot not because of the sun. It is a carousel. The chambers are not empty. The sound of shoes are running feet between ropes tiring. The air is the same. Sweeping cigarette butts onto the sidewalk and into the lobby. It will be jammed by a body. That loaded word. Love.
