Shoot the Moon

They say this game’s fixed.  Hand me any rifle,

I’ll split a bull’s-eye every time.  Guys who want

a prize for their girl skew their aim.  The trick’s

not to trust the sights:  they’re bent

with too much use.  In Game Alley I can tell

winners by their walk--not toward anything

but through--the air sure as the dusty midway.

Practice won’t bring them close as knowing

nothing’s fixed, everything’s target--the black

center staring back like a pock-marked eye.