Man of the Hour

Man of the Hour Paintsplashed cap, Embermarked chair cradles shadowskeleton frame. He is waiting. Smokes. It will be over soon. He'll see his son soon enough, No need to go. He hopes he does not hear the 21 guns. Nervous. He is smoking too much too fast (His dead son's twin sits, too. And smokes.) Words hang caught in bluehumid haze, so they stop talking. Front door creaks; Black suits, black dresses spilling in. It is done and he did not hear the 21 guns. The day a round of family: coming, eating, crying, leaving. He sits, smokes. Evening. He has stopped raising the cigarette to his mouth. It burns down in the oakgnarled tissueskin hand. And he lights another, like incense. It burns down, too. And his sons have come to talk squirrel hunting until the only light is the street lamp. It filters in with the hushed sounds of evening. He used to be a damned good shot. He wishes he could have heard the 21 guns. Quiet. Cigarette smoke wraps ghostgray fingers around the night. —Rebecca M. Atchison 13 ...