Little They Know, Snow – March 16, 2018 Fairbanks

It was me.

Nobody else can know.

Are they dead?

I sure think so.

Could I say it was an accident?

I think not believably, no.

What does it matter if they find out?

My tires crunched loudly into the gravel of my driveway as I grind the brakes

No, even without anything to lose,

I decide this secret is best left to me alone.

I rush inside my small, quiet home

It was still snowing slightly

Nothing has moved, the fire kept the pipes warm

More than 4 feet of snow and still counting

Temperatures radically dropping

In the back, storage room, a plastic bag in my hand

Sirens approaching in a bundle

I strip most apparel and tuck it into the bag

The gun stays in my hand as I rush out the back door.

Dig down the side of the porch, tuck in the bag, cover the mess

Back inside I ran, still deciding

Gun in hand.

Will I make a standoff?

Too much risk, not the way I’d like to go just yet

Parade of lights beginning to flow past the thick brush of the property

A crunching scramble on slippery snow

And I throw the gun under the nearest tree.

Wait – the hole would show.

They were making the final turn now, engines revving closer…

The branches -the fresh snow

A swift shove to the nearest brings the cover

This will get me some time.

I walk out a few more steps,

Bare skin freezing in the wind

Little they know, thanks to the snow

My hands go into the air as I am surrounded

And I pray we have another long winter.

 

This is one of my few short story poems, which I tried to write with a lot of rapid anticipation and at the same time expressing some inner-dialogue that is struggling with panic.  In this story, there is a man who has committed some vaguely heinous crime and is trying to now get away with it. He is rushing home and after he realizes that he has to hide what he has just done. He is gathering up his clothes that have presumably been covered in blood, burying them under his porch under some snow, briefly considers a potential fight, and then throws the gun (the main piece of evidence) into the yard and knocks over the branches of the tree nearby to conceal his drop. He can then only hope that no one can find these items as he is taken into custody, in that the winter will ideally be longer so that the evidence is concealed by snow.

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