Friday, we pump iron at the gym.
On Saturday, you’ve checked out
without leaving a note.
It’s a spur-of-the-moment decision.
The dog leash wrapped tight around
your neck, lashed to garage rafter,
a tipped-over kitchen chair,
lifeless body swinging,
your final dispatch.
No more useless therapy sessions.
Months of insomnia.
Years of depression.
Ineffective combinations of drugs.
Scheduled for hospitalization on Monday,
you couldn’t endure another painful moment.
Took yourself out of the picture.
Gifted Death the last word.