Despair was too simple a word for how he felt.
Despondent didn’t quite do it justice either.
Some men might have knelt to God in prayer,
But the lieutenant was not much of a believer.

He took his service revolver in his hand
and looked one last time at their wedding picture.
Tears might have helped, except he could not cry;
not for himself nor for her blighted future.

He thought of his shield mates; his fellow men in blue,
And the twenty-five years he’d put in on the job.
Anxiety had dogged him on every shift.
In the machine called justice, he’d been just a cog.

He’d left his note upon the kitchen table;
just a simple goodbye, not long on explanation.
He took the barrel between his lips and fired;
By dying he would make his expiation.