Target Shooter

    
    The birds will find me there
    Not that the hawks
    Care. But in terms of that modern gold, protein
    I would be of use in some small way.
    Through the mouth?
    Or in the neck?
    Not the heart. So filled with holes
    Even a hollow point would go straight through.
    I study suicides carefully.
    The ones that work.
    I can tell you that shooting one’s self
    In the forehead, down the middle, isn’t one.
    It could create a lobotomy
    And then you’d be too blank to know
    Why you wanted to kill yourself in the first place
    Not to mention you’d be an inedible vegetable
    Even more resigned
    No
    I want my last moment to be passionate!
    Like the Old West.
    My rightful legacy.
    It would be way too L. A. to
    Kill myself in a sporty red car
    Maybe through the eye? or ear?
    Shooting yourself in the gut is just plain stupid
    It will kill you
    But many agonizing hours later
    Nothing like physical pain to change
    A person’s resolve
    Take it from me
    Remorse is not functional when you’re
    Good as gone.
    Regret will not be my last thought
    My last day
    My last emotion
    Will be a celebration.
    Feeling sorry for me or anyone else
    Will never work as a send-off.
    I think about what kind of gun I want
    Doesn’t matter much how much it costs
    After all, tomorrow is May Day and I won’t
    Have to pay the rent or even buy food
    So I can use a beautiful new Colt … long black barrel
    Big slugs
    I hate to waste a whole box of shells
    But buying just a handful might be a tell.
    So if you find this poem
    Look for that near-full box of ammo and give it to a target shooter.
    Me, I’m going to fire a few rounds, myself, before I go.