I slowly bring the knife up to the throat
lining it up like a pool shark
there is no tearing as the knife is drawn across the skin
the sign of a sharp blade
blood leisurely flows from the wound
as relaxed as a smoking gun
and similar in its swirling
I wonder what's for dinner as the bucket fills
it's close to quitting time
I wash my hands
the knife returns to its home
and so do I