Jimmy sits on the floor
in his empty apartment
with a pillow at his back,
a pistol across his right thigh.
His friends come in with joints or beer or fast food,
and they brag and swear and laugh,
then use the john and leave.
Jimmy watches the door swing open
he stares at the sun as it creeps the floor
and bathes his hightops
in warm, yellow light.
He listens to the grind of cicadas
and revving cars,
the laughter of his friends,
the small, heavy clicks
of the Python's cylinders.