Police Informer’s Last Rites
By Ian C. Smith
He imagined eyes watching him.
Through the scarred blind he looked about
the concrete yard, saw nothing different.
The exposed front door was the only
way out, down the hall, past other lonely
lodgers' rooms. He chewed his uncooked
meal, swallowed each dry mouthful, reviewed
the plan, convinced nerve was held by
sticking to routine. He rinsed the plate
rehearsing in his mind. He would hate
to slip up. He switched off the heat, checked
the time, opened the door, stared both
ways along the dead street without
turning his head. He knew all the parked
cars. At the corner phone a dog barked
a forlorn cry from a base animal.
Its echo raked those mean alleys like
a sinner's prayer, a treacherous lie.
Then the unseen car that would be found
burned, the gun, window down, that awful sound.