Hitman
©Scott Schumaker

A hitman in a suburban home says:
What will you make of this day of your life?

He starts whistling the Soul classic
    “Going, Going, Gone” by The O’Jays
as I answer:

There are no easy exits
when Sunday services are lead by puppets
and
I am trying to get to the center
of my own amusement park
where
there are no apologies
and
memory is a shelter for kidnapped dogs.

I want to start each day by flying
but I fear capsizing the winged speedboat –
the fastest way around that long bend in the river –
or plowing over all the people
floating in the water.

I want to reach the haunted house in the middle of this theme park
sitting atop a stretch limo
as it
loops through the corkscrews and figure eights of rollercoasters.

I want to fall off
              fall out
              fall in
              fall completely apart
before putting myself back together
and
finding out what this day will make of my life.

The flash of the barrel
precedes the repercussion of the hammer.
Another suburbanite dead.

The hitman stops whistling and says:
That should help.
 
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