tired

i am a marauder who
dropped his scythe,
shrugged off the sword,
sat down in the easychair
to bite his fingernails
& stare moodily
out the living room window.

my wife is terrified of me.
she clings to the curtains
and edges around the walls.
sometimes,
just to scare her,
i touch the steak knives
the same way i touch her,
just run my fingers over
their blades.

we're having steak tonight.
my delinquent teenage son
is in his bedroom,
playing with a book of matches
and listening to noise rock.
i tell him all that static
will warp his hearing,
but he doesn't listen.
once i told him if he didn't
stop crying,
his face would freeze
that way.
he didn't listen then
& now it has.

it rained all night
(tiny drummers)
when my assassin caught up with me.
i was reading ian fleming
by firelight,
smoking my last cigarette.

he came at me from behind,
i didn't see his face.
carelessly, my head falls
to the floor

and in my last 3 seconds
i can see boredom's shadow
slink out the front way,
disappearing as a rustle
between the tulips
& the peonies.