THREE-'O'-FOUR

If older,
she might have argued,
that the years had been unkind.
Compression of a lifetime,
squeezed through the refuse
of a few squandered months.
Her yellowed resolve buffeted
by melodrama
tear-stained goodbyes,
one widow-black hanky
administering forgotten farewells
to her stolen heart.

How had she come to this?

Standing before a locked grave
en suite restraint driving her
distilling myriads of emotion
one solid grasp of that dusty revolver
beneath her careworn winter cloak.
Shivering mess,
a torrent of sopping wet nerves,
cold feet cemented before
the brassy plate reading three-o-four.

Tapping with shaky fingers
the panel swings open,
to his sweet startled surprise,
half dressed,
clean white shirt crumpled in hand.
She points and smiles,
trigger pent frustration
unloading its shattered rounds
until he drops,
in limpid red tears -
the assassination of her youth.