Board sign. Black paint.
Wind over the barren waste.
Dust storm. Gut wound.
Three, two, one, toward my doom.
Population 41.
When it's over and done, done,
I have another number
I've assigned to Him,
and by my fucking blood,
He's going to get His.
Population 41.
Does this shanty even have a doctor?
High five the sign as I pass it,
with a bloody palm print.
Welcome, 42.