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Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM. He produces the poetry website Origami Condom. In his spare time he attends baseball games, runs an open mic and walks the foothills and desert trails.
Assisted Suicide
“When I walk the stairway
above the streetlight abyss
I hear the stories of old battles,
the regular loss of infants, innocence.”
At least, that is what this
girl said
as I handed her another shot of Jameson,
as she sketched the outlines and inlines
of pub patrons with a pilot g-2 pen,
black ink, on a small pad she carried
in her left breast pocket.
“I can’t get health
insurance anymore.
I am kryptonite to their superman.”
She shrugs the world off her shoulders
and it splashes the beer next to her shot.
“What profit is there in making sure people live?”
She remains on her barstool
many hours,
until the whiskey runs out, until
she captures enough souls with her pen
to form a new identity and she speaks
to the allusion: God is a Health Insurance executive
reducing risk.
“Nice ass!” some guy says
to her.
“Advanced Hep-C” she returns, watches his
hesitation, the gears start to shift in his head,
then his feet, then he moves on to the next girl.
I wipe down the last glass and only she
remains in the place as two-thirty
works its way toward three. She pulls
her coat on as I grab my jacket, lock
the door behind us.
“Walk with me to the moon
tonight,
then let me go on to the stars
as you return home.”