Whiskey Rebellion

A man, he was in his forties I think, shot himself

Last night on a dark shoreline with a twenty-two.

There was a note

I didn’t read

Regarding his reason,

But it was very contrived.

The Police, who has been called, closed the beach.

The selfish prick had ruined the day.

A bottle of whiskey

Rested against

Aluminum and mesh

And gunpowder residue.

They cleaned the scene in essence,

But blood stained sand kernels are had to remove totally.

There was a hole 

Somewhere

And one in his head

And one in mine—

When I stole the whiskey.