from my one-bedroom apartment I hear reports
rattling trailers, buoyant without load
shotgun reports from the florists across the street
where I will learn tomorrow someone has been shot
a hole in his chest the size of a pomelo
a fistful of 12-gauge sprinkled his chilled face
will beget no sympathy, a philanderer, a bounder
he had it coming
a damn shame
I wonder, after the reports and reports
Who was he buying flowers for?
Would my fist fit inside his chest?
Could I push my arm through and come out the other side?
Could I see myself from where I stand?
Soon Wiley’s work has appeared in Sonora Review, Harpur Palate, Hobart, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from Wichita State University. Originally from Nyack, New York, he currently teaches English in Washington, D.C.