to murder the murderer’s murderers

chicken colored Southern chap
charged for the chagrin of
his own alcoholism, afternoon
behind wine-tinged shades
and Tom Collins, wood panel
after bloom-time gets moldier
and mustier, breaths shorten
while folding flags, it’s illegal
to use an i to outfit an armoire
with mothballs, two movements,
an arm, a needle, drip by drop
toward death row, no, stay,
saddle us with the dead man’s DNA.
i am a killer the killer is me.