He wraps a cord around his throat,
the dark garage now quiet and cold,
and pulls a chair against the post,
takes off his hat and tugs his coat.
Here he stands on shaky toes,
with no cause to write a fucking note,
gulping hard beneath the rope,
as would, he thought, a long-failed dope.
No one around, he's free to be
himself, his mask impossible to see.
He smiles, filled with chilled ennui,
now finally able to snag a Z.
His eyelids moist, he thinks of family,
shuttered dreams and reams of failings.
But like a death-row con strapped up and flailing,
he thinks just maybe someone will save him.
Alas, the moment comes then passes,
and the next few crawl like spoiled molasses.
But he's the bard of this last passage,
these unseemly, selfish, bold trespasses.
So his jaw clenches and he steps off.
The chair falls back and the rope coughs.
At first, regret, but not a lot.
His body jerks, then sways, then stops.
He finally found the space he thought
lay past the universal door he sought.
His earthly remnants will stay in this spot,
a coda that ends with three dampened dots.
