These frequent attempts on my life
Have left me worn right down
In and out of hiding
Like a highly-strung cat
Forever casting looks over my left shoulder
Waiting for the inevitable end

Pacing back and forth
In a roach-infested safe house
Drain another whiskey glass
and pour another
Where is she now?
Even if I knew her number
I wouldn’t dare make the call

Maybe the answer lies within the .38
Resting upon the kitchen table
Beside the crammed and spilling ashtray
Which is worse – the wait, or the execution?
And will either change what comes after?