Jack

A month ago, he’d had enough, poor Jack,

and wondered how to end it all without

upsetting the delicate status quo.

 

He couldn’t wait for daylight.  He couldn’t

wait till everyone was gone.  Up he ran,

quick as he could, before anyone

 

had a chance.  There it lay, the crossbow,

strung up and ready to go, and so he pointed

it at himself and fired

 

in such a way that first it pierced his chin.

His blood spattered in all directions, sorry,

no apologies, but it had to be

 

this way.  Someone would mop it up later,

someone else always did, and, sure enough,

there she stood, ordering him

 

not to move, screaming at him not to pull

that bloody arrow out, but oh what did she

know about it all, what did she

 

know, as she called the amb?  They sent the

heli but before it came he decided he’d had

enough, poor Jack, enough,

 

and pulled it out before he himself could

have changed his mind.  And there he lay, his

life spilled by his own hand.

 

©  Ella Wagemakers, 10.59 Dutch time (=  4.59 EST in the US)

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