dismissed with a flicker of the eyelids,
a transfer away,
attention no longer required.
he wears assassin’s gloves,
a sliver of pale wrist between
black leather and sleeve.
grants you one of his
slow-motion blinks,
the ones that speak volumes,
meaning that slices to the bone.
discipline is what rules him
but the rules are not of his making.
lets his trigger finger do the talking
world-weary disdain on his innocent
child’s face, blank, without guilt,
beyond remorse,
prettily flecked with the
blood of the dead.
See here and here for more on Tim Olyphant.
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