On the way home from school...

By Ashanti Davis

I watched

as a man

killed

his dog.

I had

never felt

a gun

shot before,

not once

had

I ever felt

the shudder

through

the air.

The perfect line of his outstretched arm.

I wasn’t

even

supposed

to be there;

a shortcut,

I had taken

across back-yards

marked

by chain-link

fences,

when I saw

the man

with

his gun.

Sometimes,

remembering

the shudder

through the air,

I wonder why—

why he

shot

his dog.

It could have been

a snarling mutt,  

if that even was

his dog—

or wild-

rabid

pup.

Then,

remembering:

the perfect line

of his lowered

arm;

the echoed

remains

of a whimper

fleeing

into

the air.