Murder wasn’t on his mind,

More, it was financial gain,

Needing just a little cash,

For a fix to ease the pain.


Riding through a neighborhood,

He looked and finally found,

A house that was in darkness,

Long after the sun went down.


The break-in was successful,

Soon he found a pillowcase.

He tip-toed in the bedroom,

And began to loot the place.


He had with him a Ruger,

Killing wasn’t in the plan,

He shot fast without thinking,

At the movement of a man.


He died from his own bullet,

Off the mirror ricocheted,

Lost his life to the quick shot,

His reflection better played.

Marlene Tucker, a native of Haslet, Texas, makes her home on a farm just outside Axtell with her husband, Bill. She says there is a poetic story in almost everything. Email her at