Well

You took spent shotgun shells down

from the shelf, filled them to the lip

with blent black powder, hot-glued

fuses into their mouths to shut them up.

Even as a boy I knew their power.

Like clockwork, each time the well

clogged, you’d take one, spark it

with your cigarette, toss the screaming

charge into its closed throat. I imagined

the ribbed plastic casing bursting

at the middle in white-hot strobe.