Not From Chicago.

Satisfy Autumn

A man dressed in his best black suit
Sets himself down into his oaken
Armchair that domineered his room.
A fireplace sizzled as embers died away;
It was almost inaudible over the rustling
Of the turned leaves' tumbling outside.
On his right sat the new birch chair
He had crafted for his wife's
Birthday, for which four score of candles
Decorated her celebratory pastry.
Upon which chair sat a journal,
his, with olden brown leather
binding its raw paper pages.
On his left, leaning against the wall,
Was his old hunting rifle, blood
Stained on muzzle and barrel.
Presently a knock sounded on his door.
"Go 'way"
"Sir we just need to talk to you."
"I know what the hell you're here for. Now scram before I call the cops!"
"We are the cops, ol' Jake."
"Oh what the hell ever. I ain't comin' out."
He picked up his journal from the chair
And opened it to the last page
And let out a drawn out sigh that
Fluttered the pages a bit.
His pages were lined then
With dark ink from his pen.
"Oh honey, I never meant
To hurt you in such a way.
I pray your poltergeist be
Satisfied when my hol(e)y grey head
Lays in satin under the ground.
And I pray you'll comprehend
My reasoning as soon as
I see you in the place below.
For I'm rebuked when my foot trods
over a roach in your floor,
yet I am comforted when
I put metal through the skull
of your milk-giving cow.
I'm thrown out for a penny's worth
of trouble, and invited for a dollar.
At every turn of your feeling
Was another corner,
Each one stealing away control
And leading me off the road.
That's why I let you go.
You drove me off the rails, hun.
And they know now.
They're comin for me cuz they found you.
I gotta go. I'll see you."
The door knocked once more.
"Screw off. Let me die in peace."
"Ain't nobody dyin' t'day Mr. Patterson.
Just come out so we can take you to a
better place than this run down ol' shack."
"Only place you'll take me is jail. I wanna go to heaven. I've done my prayin'"
Jake leaned to his right side
With his yellow tinted hand
And picked up his rifle.
"See y'all on the other side."
He raised the rifle to his forehead
And put his finger on the golden trigger.
A figure then appeared in the corner illuminated by the twilight sun.
"Do it Jake. I want to see you again, but I can only do so if you pull that trigger."
"What do you think I'm doin', ya old bitch?"
Those were the last words out of his mouth
As the men outside knocked down the door
And his blood stained over the words,
His confession, in the old truthful journal.