I haven’t, since he cut the women loose,
discussed his plan. Well, here’s a little hint:
He brought some rope with which to make a noose.
To start a fire, he brought a piece of flint.
The trading post lay halfway in between
the compound and the city limit line,
though nothing of the limit could be seen.
Corrosion long ago had claimed the sign.
The spot he chose had been a narrow street
that separated two old factories,
and if I’m ever wanting of a cleat,
a piece of rusted rebar, if you please.
His length of rope would reach three times across,
with slack enough to leave room for a knot.
Like fingers in a strand of dental floss,
the rope and leg would be bound at that spot.
As soon as sundown’s rays imbued the sky,
he gathered up some branches, leaves, and grass,
preferring green and dewy over dry.
Less flame that way, and more repulsive gas.
©2011 Louis A. Merrimac
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