Poetry Week, Part 6

[deckardcanine]

One night I took a bullet in the back
But gave no further thought to my assassin.
Instead, my mind was on a single track:
To treat my wound before it meant my passin’.
I asked a passerby to help me out.
She handed me a phone and said to dial
A certain number. Too confused to doubt
The wisdom in this move, despite her smile,
I called and heard some prerecorded tips
On staying fit and healthy, like I’d learned
In kindergarten. What the heck was this?
My common sense had finally returned.
With that I punched in 911. Alas,
I heard the same recorded woman’s voice
Dispensing safety rules I’d known from class
When I was five. Was there no better choice?
One thing I ought to mention: I had felt
No pain upon the shooting, and indeed,
It turns out my subconscious mind had dealt
A silly dream, from which I soon was freed.
It fits some dreaming patterns that I’ve found
From year to year: I’m often getting shot,
And medics and police, if they’re around,
May try to be of service but are not.
In retrospect, this nightmare strikes me quaint—
Hilarious, in fact, unlike the rest.
I’m trying not to let the darn thing taint
My real-world views. I think that’s for the best.