by Nick Gisburne
The woman who imagined I was dead,
Impatient, should have finished off the job,
But no, in haste, my murderer, instead,
Reported to her benefactor, Bob.
A legendary figure in our field,
To failure he has never given time.
He asked me, over dinner, rested, healed,
What punishment would fit my killer’s crime?
Her days were done, of course, but I proposed
The bounty on her body should be this:
Release my life, the contract cancelled, closed.
To wipe the slate, my bullet would not miss.
The bargain, only business, was agreed.
Unhurried, to be sure, I watch her bleed.
