How I Made My Millions
They sit me on a chair to which
They cuff my hands behind my back.
They watch my teeth scatter across
The basement floor, as they take turns
Throwing haymakers at my face.
They demand an answer,
But I'm as stubborn as they come.
I bet they break their fists
Before I break my will.
If they knew where to look they'd
Fillet me like a fish to retrieve the key
I had already swallowed.
Instead, to further suggest cooperation,
They load and point a pistol between
The brows of my eyes,
But I know that if they pull the trigger,
All will be lost.
Their millions will be worthless
So long as their pride and joy
Is withering away in a cellar
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
They know that her well-being rests
On my discretion, so with bold theatrics
They slide the gun through my daft
Conceited sneer. A bead of sweat
Slowly rolls down my face,
As I choke on the barrel in the back
Of my throat. I sit in silence
And patiently await them
To sign over the check.
I remember him well. Year after year in a season
Wrought with decay. Donavan drove with haste
Through the outer edge of town, speeding along
The narrow winding roads. His head bobbed
With the beat of the punchy bass line that pounded
Through the stereo speakers. He felt it rumbling
In his chest,as he put the weight of his foot on the gas,
The liquid courage burning through his veins.
I sat in the passenger seat stiff as the dead leaves
Left on the early autumn terrain. I buckled up,
As Donavan smiled. He looked in his rearview,
As if to mock death tailgating only inches behind.
He knew that the local law enforcement was nowhere
Near, but didn't know that a man was crossing
The street the moment we rounded the bend.
It was then that the reaper rolled it's sleeves
And swiftly ascended the scythe, as Donavan jerked
The wheel into the trunk of a tree.
I remember him well, as I sit in silence
Stiff as the dead leaves I remove from the overgrown plot.
Shawn Martin Macrae is a nervous man. A paranoid and delightfully miserable man. He is a writer. He lives in a small town somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and when you feed him after midnight he becomes a ghostly figment of his own imagination. That is when he writes the bleak and often unsettling scenerios you can find haunting various online literary venues. You can find him at www.shawnmartinmacrae.com