SLAM!

"Direct Impact" 

The motorcade rolls across the screen.
The young president
sitting in the black convertible,
waving to the crowd,
his head blowing back.
Spatter from the rear.

I picture your face in place of his,
though you weren't president,
nor in a car.
Instead alone in a room.
The gun not that of another,
but your own.

Both decisions made with one intent,
to end a life.
Yet I wonder -
Were you as surprised
as he was in the end?

Jackie sat next to him,
and I was not there.
Still -
I felt the impact
of your bullet
in my heart,
and the spatter
still stains my soul.