He slipped off his khakis.
Thirty one, thirty twos,
fitted around the thigh.
He slipped off his shirt.
Button-down collar,
forty inch slim fit.
Summer-time blues.
He slipped off his glasses.
Specifications unknown
(to him, not their maker.)
He slipped off his bed.
Double, white, pressed
linen sheets, achingly
crisp.
He slipped open the nightstand,
made his last prayer to Sammy Colt,
and pulled the trigger with a,
a chuckle.
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