Bullet Proof Suit

Mark today in your diaries.
Ring it on your calendars.
Gather together on a blustery cliff
and mount a plaque
or a erect monument of some kind
if you prefer.

It sounds like something
you would find in a dark corner
of Ian Flemming’s attic.
But today, it was created.

Spare a thought for the tailor,
standing on the cobbled workshop floor,
in the dim light of the fire’s dying embers -
so many years, a single spider,
spinning a web all alone -
His life’s work complete,
save one final task.

He pulls on a grey jacket,
rubs away the chalk lines,
fastens the top button.

After lifting a Smith and Wesson ‘48
from the coffin of the drawer,
he carefully selects a single bullet
and rolls it between his finger and thumb
like a small golden grape.

An empty chamber now full,
he turns the barrel selfwards.
Arms outstretched, palms together
as if in prayer, his thumbs press
the cold trigger.

The shot deafens the street outside.
Rooftop pigeons fly their ledges,
children grasp the mother’s legs.

Inside the clock’s pulse beats,
the kettle cools
and their air is cordite stung.

On the cold, bare floor
the tailor raises the drawbridge of his eyelids,
bringing into focus
the flaking plaster of the ceiling,
the burning pain spreading through his chest.