One Malt, Two Straws and Apocalypse

Fifteen years can rub the luster off
nearly anything, but between the cold
chrome and bubbly neon jukebox light you
glint like a diamond, even crouched behind
the dust-cloaked Formica counter, knee-deep
in moldy hamburger buns. Who knew they
still had soda fountains in Rexall Drugs?

I almost forgot how the sun melted
your milk chocolate iris to carnelian,
but the Molotov cocktail I launched through
the shattered window glitters in your eye,
silhouettes the sights on the Remington
clasped to your shoulder, sparkles the glass shards
caught in your hair. The eye patch and the scar
lend you an air of mystery, a touch
of danger (not that we need more danger).

Maybe you aren't the tanned drill-team captain
I knew in high school (skulking in the dark
leeched us both milk-pale) but you rock black
body armor harder than Jovovich.

I simply have to tell you one thing before
the undead regroup for their next assault...

Toss me another clip, I'm almost out.

The End

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