Death in the Afternoon

It always happens when I’m clear headed.

The unexpected weight of lead

in my pocket. The rattle

of metallic wakes a

Mourning Dove’s cry.

From above I watch my friends,

my body is a corpse trying to blend in.

Somewhere in the corner there is

a clown balancing balloons

on needle point.

And I can’t stop my ears from ringing.

And the doves won't stop screaming.

And the metal bees won't stop buzzing.

I am weighted,

as I float,

on top

a pointed blade.

I watch my hand reach into my pocket,

load the weapon and tilt my head back.

Shotgunning absinthe’s flow.

My body gulps deeply,

savoring,

Death in the Afternoon.