Take It and Go

I stride down the sidewalk,
nose itching,
briefcase in hand.
Neatly shaved,
new haircut,
new leather shoes.

People walk past me
from all directions.

She, I think,
She works at that grocery store I just passed,
and she has to smile at every customer
and wish them a good day.

He, I think,
He says he needs to work overtime today,
but it's obvious he hasn't been at work
when he comes home smelling like tequila.

She, I think,
She is going to a job interview,
and if all goes well she will be able
to pay her rent and her bills.

He, I think,
He is grabbing a bagel and coffee
before heading off to his 8:00 A.M. class.

She, I think,
She is babysitting that little girl,
and they are going to the zoo,
and then they will get some ice cream.

I cross the street,
firm jaw,
buttoned suit.
Eyes darting left and right,
entering the minds and lives of passerby,
weighed down by the black hole in my stomach-
infinitely small and massive-
sucking all of my insides into its territory.

He, I think,
He doesn't know me; he's never seen me before,
and he won't know that it's me on the television tonight.

She, I think,
She isn't heading in the same direction as me,
but if she was,
hopefully we would not end up in the same building,
in the same bank.

I see the person I'm looking for,
so I casually turn left and stroll down the side alley toward him.
No sign of emotion,
clenched fist,
empty briefcase.

And then,
the briefcase is heavy
with the weight
of a gun.

If only, I think,
If only I hadn't dropped out of college
and lost my job
and started drinking.
If only I had paid the rent
and spent more time with my little girl
and gotten a new job.

I'll take the money and go.
That's the plan.
Won't hurt anyone.
Won't let them see my face.
I've done it before;
I've gotten away with it before.

Take it and go
before the black hole swallows you up entirely.