5358. TO THE MAN WHO KILLED HIMSELF TWICE

TO THE MAN WHO 

KILLED HIMSELF TWICE

With the bearing of a cat he went about his business. Even as I

watched, he was polishing up his gun, cinching up his rope. Just

to wonder which way he'd use, I stayed. There was a candle

yet burning on the mantle  -  right near where he'd already

gutted his girlfriend. What was I to do. Like some 1940's

movie scene, he'd already cut the wires to the phone.

-

Was I hostage to this scene, or just my inquisitive heart?

I too had loved Sheila and knew her from way back when :

two kids on the sly, kissing in the dark above an old garage

stairway. Now I noticed her dead-self stank of blood.

The idiot at the other room's entry was madly exercising,

he said, his right to Death. His own (and hers, he'd forgotten 

to add). I wasn't about to argue with him. His proud and

purple shadow curled along the inside wall  -  he could

have all this anyway he'd choose. I just wished these

ropes around my wrists could be untied. (Or I'd still

be here as he too died)? My self-correction set in.

-

Shit! Just then I heard the blast. Good for that. He'd

done it with the gun and I'd be left alive. I'd really

be left alive! (And oh, hooray for that again)!