Providing the Providers for the Providees

In an affiliation with annihilation
I soak the gunshot scribe
with an ocean or two in my left hand
drowning my southpaw trigger finger
like breathing apparatus bought with bribes.

Dollar bills that can do much more damage
than inflict paper cuts upon bathing
in their glorious dissimulation.

And the mirror image
within the sodden, green palm of your hand
testing the fabric imbricating your eyes:

“Happiness | tsugsiD”

Happiness for the fact that you are not in place
of those losing their lives today,
or tomorrow for that matter,
unless you have a date with a money-hungry knife.

Disgust for the fact that you’ve become a Grim Reaper for hire,
which luckily enough for you is legal
since one-hundred-forty-second degree murder
hasn’t become a crime yet.

And at least it’s wool impairing your vision
so it’s thick enough to get you through
the most cold-hearted of nights.

But you just wait for the day
when blood can soak through that many hands.