His Own Small Store Poem by Eric Cockrell

he's just an old man...
working behind the counter
of his own small store
for forty years...

the young toughs
kept robbing him...
grabbing stuff off the shelves
and running...

threatening him,
and the old woman...
till they lived in fear
day and night...

then they went too far!
coming across the counter
and grabbing him by the collar:
'give me the money, old man! '

quick, and sudden,
the gunshot rings out...
the young tough falls
to the floor in a
puddle of blood...

now the old man's going to court
for excessive use of force,
and an unregistered handgun...

to the halls of justice,
sterile and cold...
the stench of dignity dying
fills the air...

and the hands on the clock
cant be turned back!