Shoot - "Regret" - Repeat

I tail him on unruly backroads,

high beam lights irradiating from

my car into his;

a hawk extending his talons.

My siren, the trumpet,

blazing through the air to the tune of Reveille;

his car stammers off

to the side of the road.

Rubber shoes clanking on the walk there,

flashlight leaving glass-hair

fissures in the window

that was left half-rolled up. Sliding

his registration through the crack like

a box office attendant.

Nerves in his arm

quiver while sliding across denim, thick

jacket covering his waist,

envisioning him

pulling a gun. Commanding he step out

of the vehicle, my hand

already on the door handle;

peeling him out of his seat

by the collar of his shirt. Dragging

him against the asphalt,

wanting him to give me a reason,

a yearning anticipation flexing

the muscles in my hand.

Smoothing them over like stroking the

feathers of a bird, coaxing -

necessary.

 

Soles of my shoes pressed against the back of his neck,

pebbles creating indentations in his face.

My finger on the trigger,

bullet whizzes into his shoulder blades.

 

Sensational

thunder cracks inside my body,

his eyes going wide.

Residue spewing like morse code.

Looking

down at the asphalt, as he sputters like a faulty

engine until

lifeless. The 9mm feeling buoyant in my hands,

his I.D. falling out of his.

My head lazily

moving towards my walkie;

his blood cascading down my index finger,

pausing at the call button

before finally saying:

we have a 217.

This poem is about: 
My country

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