I have received some criticism about my poems being to short. Rest assure I can write long poems But lets face it the longer a poem is the more boring it is. So here is my response.

The boss has a score to settle, now it comes to a head.
Friends and family dead he fears not rest in a dirt bed.
He drives to an abandoned building made of old red brick.
With him, a man who tries to talk him out of this last kick.
The boss steps in and waits, muscles relaxed, breathing steady.
The old right hand, thinks him a death-angel, combat ready.
Two step out, the boss raises a forty plated in chrome,
Pulls the trigger and drives the bullet to a chest straight home.
The man who brought him up through youth knows chance for peace is gone.
A battle for the ghetto of Malleep is at last on.
For cover the man next to him leaps fast and crouches low,
Worry burdens his heart while watching the man he saw grow.
The nemesis dispatches his minions with a fast flick.
As they swarm out the boss moves his pistol arm and shoots quick.
The old advisor gives direction as in days long done.
It was the way this street warriors worst gun fights were won.
One opponent knows fortune for him bodes ill this day.
He recognizes from just sound, the style of this fire-play.
One particular man comes out with a menacing gun.
To his young boss the advisor makes a blurring fast run.
Pushed him to a column but is hit in chest, arm and hip.
The elder falls, blood from each corner of his mouth starts to drip.
This gunman turns to the worn column and lets his tool hum.
A weak round, on brick it uselessly continues to drum.
Still covered he aims, pulls back firm, and lets the hammer go.
Chest spattered in red, it turns out as the gun man’s death blow.
To his automatic weapon his own cohorts fall prey.
They are gunned down as the man’s lifeless body spins away.
Sighted on the last one, street boss notices a strange thing.
On the henchman’s finger is a familiar puzzle ring.
His mind is moved to another time on a long gone day.
Young and celebrates a birthday with one he used to play.
The ring he still wears, he gave him long ago as a gift.
So the boss does not shoot as he sees the man’s hand lift.
The boss’s body is knocked down with a bolt of sudden pain.
Anything he wished to say, goes in vain from the huge strain.
By now any other thug would far too early start to boast.
But well trained, the old friend approaches more cautious than most.
The near dead advisor looks at the man with total hate.
Little life left, for a final shot it is not too late.
There is a strong sense of sorrow as the old friend’s eyes meet.
The parting long ago was a mistake made in life’s heat.
The boss sees movement past the man, and tries hard to say “no.”
But laying a hairs breath away from death the words come slow.
The man standing is shot through several times from behind,
Falling on boss who, senses failing, is near deaf and blind.
The old man’s body goes limp, mind glad to cause one more loss.
And a once close friend rest dead on the mortally struck boss.