say this game’s fixed.
Hand me any rifle,
split a bull’s-eye every time.
Guys who want
prize for their girl skew their aim.
to trust the sights:
too much use.
In Game Alley I can tell
by their walk--not toward anything
through--the air sure as the dusty midway.
won’t bring them close as knowing
fixed, everything’s target--the black
staring back like a pock-marked eye.