everyone knew
he was going to do it
the entire neighborhood
he told everyone
one-on-one
soberly
quietly
he’d reached the end
he knew it wouldn’t be pretty
either way he chose
so he picked the lesser evil

his dead dad’s gun
would get him through
as it had protected him
in that rough part of town
more than once
he said he knew the place
out in the country
some meaningful mountains
and that view at dawn
the women he had loved
listened next to him on couches
holding his hand and head
some donated a night of forgetting
for old time’s sake

someone took his dog
a drug dealer friend
shed a few tears

then he was gone
just the way he said
being a man of his word

whatever other faults he had
he joked he only had one
“the size of San Andreas”

he wasn’t old

and the obituary
since they cost money
was short

and just said
he died
“after a brief illness”

and that old red Chevy pickup
he gave to his brother
with family photos
boxed in the trunk
memories to cover up
that last bit of horror
and mess

was stolen the next day

and never came back