"I shot my wife today," he said, "point blank,
shot her in the head, just like William Tell,
however, I missed the highball. She died,
of course, but since this was in Mexico,
the federales sent me back up north,
much better than rotting in a prison,
yet, I can never get rid of this stain."
"Women don't take kindly to shooting them,
in the head, or breast, or anyplace else
for that matter. My reputation's shot,
evidently. But, since the case is closed,
then, if I don't say anything, no one,
obviously, would ever know, unless
dreams, or nightmares, make me talk in my sleep,
and then, I could tell my new lady friend,
yes, I was having a bad dream, easy."
He sat at the bar, I poured him a drink,
even if what he said was true, stories
simply disappear when not brought to light,
and who wants to hear that story again,
if it is true, especially, if he
demonstrates no remorse. So I listen,
"point blank," he says again, to remind me,
or to pick up his tale of confession,
if I'm right, it happened at a party,
nobody cares if this bastard comes here
to drink, but if I hear another word,
"boom," he said, "then my marriage was over,
literally, dead and buried, the plot
a full fathom deep, that's six feet! And since
nobody ever reads the newspapers,
killing her won't be no big deal. Thank God!"
No comments:
Post a Comment