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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 6 page 23


The Boss

by Darren Dijon

this guy’s a punk
i hate his ignorant smirking face
his squalid apartment
stop screwin’ aroun’ i tell him
i wanna see the boss
OK he says OK tough guy
come with me, that’s what you want
so we tromp down the hall
which stinks of curry and sweat
and tryna be genial i say
you been watchin’ the playoffs?
making chitchat 'cause my bluff is gunna work
the bugger’s gunna take me up to the boss
the playoffs, he says, yes yes
i’m totally excited about the playoffs
he says as we reach the end of the hall
and he pushes past the wire-glass door
into a stairwell painted bile green
then holy shit the bastard pulls
a .38 out from his shirt
and points it at me
in slow motion
his finger
know if
this is out loud
or is it in my brain i
hear my voice screaming:
stop this is insane!
the bullet slices into my chest
explodes my body bloated burning
lurching reeling against the green wall
humiliated in front of that jerk but he’s gone
left me here like dirt
hit my heart but maybe just nicked it
maybe some miracle i'll come out alive
i’ll scrawl his name on the wall before i fall
big letters in blood
the cops will see
his name but what was his name?
no words come to mind
thru the concrete blocks i hear
faraway din
glasses clinking, voices, babble,
a party somewhere on the other side