exhale

He lies in the field
and counts the buzzards
that circle above,
counts the buzzards
that drive past
in their late-model Fords,
counts the goddamned vultures
awaiting his impending demise,
live, in color,
on KCTV5 News at Nine.

He lies in the field,
a hymn in his head,
two shots in the gut,
awaiting the heavenly light
to wash away the blood,
and failing that,
a good, hard rain.

He hears the dogs,
he hears the chopper,
he hears the police
and their heavy steps,
and the dragnet tightens.

He looks at his now-empty gun,
and lights up a smoke.

Inhale,
exhale.

Inhale,
exhale.

Inhale,
exhale.

He stands up.

He doesn’t
drop
the gun.

Exhale.