Their weapons and tactics ain't so special.

I'm eating an early dinner
alone at my kitchen table
back to the wall
in true Hickock fashion
naked except for my dirty boxers.
The front door's cracked;
I can hear the birds
pretending that there's much
to sing about
as the neighbors mow lawns
that haven't grown back yet
in the Sun's slow farewell.
I'm convinced that I'm the only one
not lying to myself
at the moment.
It's all so premature.

That bubble bursts
the moment I glance up
from my plate of food
for just long enough
to think I see dark shadows dashing
for cover in the nextdoor neighbor's yard.
This lethal imagination takes over
and it's instantly a SWAT team
closing into position to take me out
once and for all
and I do mean "for ALL".
My mother's leftover rice
falls from my gaping jaw
as I mumble "Oh, shit"
to myself as peacefully as
an elevator weather comment.
At least my last meal is comfort food.
One can only hope for Spanish rice
at a time like this.

A flash-bang grenade is hurled
through the window in front of the table
where I'm sitting-- no, they're not trying
to stun me this time.
It's tear gas-- no, they're not trying
to force me to come out with my hands up, either.
It's a Goddamn fragmentation grenade.
I flip the table on its side as a shield
to use against the flying shards of steel
being sure to keep my bare feet from underneath it.
It works, but my ears spurt blood when the blast's
concussion hits me.

Giving them time to breach my compound
and yes, at this point my home has reached Compound Status
would be a fatal mistake. I scramble for the stairs
on knees and palms as the smoke from the explosion clears.
Boy am I glad I have that Kalashnikov stashed.
Halfway up the staircase I see laser beams
on the soft green wall behind me.
The man who painted that gentle hue
would never have suspected that this would ever go down
in his quiet house on his quiet street.
Yes, I have time to think of all this
as the bullets fly: Time slows down at the end of ones life.

Suddenly the lasers disappear from the wall behind me.
They must've caught up with my stride.
Before I have time to verify the fact that they're
sights are locked on my torso I hear the three-round burst
that will put me down-- I hear it before I feel the rounds
pierce my bare flesh.

Then Black, just Black.
I hate to be cliche, but I'm so damn good at it.
When they find my twisted body in a heap on the floor
they'll notice the eerie smile made by my broken teeth:
you see, they didn't take me alive
and they were so scared to try
that they shot me in the back.
That's a hell of a last chapter, one I'm not worthy of.

A car honks its horn at the teenagers
walking down the middle of my street
and snaps me out of this morbid fantasy.
My heels hit the faux-wood floor hard
while the SWAT team vanishes and the
holes in various walls and windows disappear.
All is well again at 30 Innis Ave--
all except this Goddamn headache
that my chatterbox partner gave me during our
grueling eight hours of laying pipe together.

Chewing the current mouthful of my mother's meal
I feel a jagged chicken bone and pluck it from
my tongue: another dodged bullet.
And that is how it will actually be, pal: far less dramatic
than what my mind likes to embellish out of sheer boredom.
Far less dramatic, but just as deserved
as those who truly know me would agree.