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Another Anti-Climax

The kid pulled his convertible

off state highway 20

and grabbed a gun from the glove box.

Revolver, six rounds:

one in each tire and one unfired

when he tossed it onto the passenger seat.

He expected agony

but instead succumbed

to a numbness that rendered

gushing blood painless and muted

the smell of turned dirt.

Silent, he watched the world

become a different place.

On the dashboard was his life

in pages of looseleaf verse, caressed

by his hand into darkness.

They too would leave that night,

allured by a whispering wind,

rolling across the road with

the aimless uniformity of snow

bound for nowhere.

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