Loving The Killers

There are men
I admire, men
I’d never want to be,
who live only in movies.

They swing hard and
shoot straight,
breathe easily
afterward.

I know
there’s nothing real
about such ruthless
competence

at movement
and violent
problem solving.
This is why I can stare

and gasp
at the reddening ease
of their lives,
their stone confident faces

and their swift clean up,
the knives stroked against
their thighs before they are folded
and put away for next time.

I am in thrall to this myth
of success at all costs
that leaves no trace upon
the successful.  The heroes

enter my life for a time
and leave me gasping
at such a possibility, even as I struggle
to get myself off the couch

and do something, anything
that might come to fruition
in a small way in my small life.
Give me one moment from your disdain

to love these killers,
to love the efficiency
of their elimination of obstacles
as I cannot seem to do it for myself.

It’s the only satisfaction I can find
in the steady drip of a faded life.
It’s a beauty, a terrible attractiveness
I abhor, but I cannot look away.