Yorkies

I step out of the ambulance to see

eight badges; police, sheriffs, dogs,
in a sea of flashing blue and red.
I look into the car of interest and chuckle
curiously at the two small Yorkies
in the front seat. Licking incessantly
at the steering wheel. Horror
consumes me when I see
the source of the dogs’ elation.
The forearms of the man in handcuffs,
crisscrossed with clotted admissions of guilt.

I step back into the ambulance and see

one badge, one partner, one patient.
His arms now cloaked in ivory
bandage, he describes to us how he
picked up his dogs,
drove to his house,
shot his wife,
cut his wrists,
then drove until his luck ran out.
As if each step in the story
was as commonplace as the next.
As if he hadn’t left me
suffocating in the bell jar
that became the back of the ambulance.

By: Conner Morton