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CCXXXIX

January 6, 2014

The clatter and chatter of voices of people,
the clanging and ringing of bells in the steeple—
it is six on the button when I go to meet
him in Café Creation beneath the old church
spire where pigeons will roost again after the clamour.

The clatter and chatter of voices of people,
the squawking and flutter of birds in the steeple—
when I sit down beside him he looks up and says,
“It’s about time you got here, now hold out your hand.”
And he gives me a package of tight wrapped brown paper.

The clatter and chatter of voices of people,
my heartbeat like kick drums drowns out all the pigeons—
with my heart in my mouth I look down at my hand
and I ask if it’s truly the thing that I’ve sought.
When he answers with “Yes,” I start tearing the paper.

The clatter and chatter of voices of people,
the ripping of wrappings consumes all my senses—
when the paper is gone all that’s left is a name
and a picture—the picture of someone that I
had just met and whose hand was now pointing a gun at my head.

The clatter and chatter of voices of people,
the click of the hammer and boom of the bullet—
my whole body goes cold and I fall to the ground,
with my legs at right angles and eyes to the clouds,
I suppose that I found him—my long-looked-for killer.

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