making friends along the way

i don't smoke
but they ask me if i have one
last request before
the firing squad
takes aim
and finishes me off
in the hot Mexican sun.
cigarette, please?
i say.
and so they give me one.
i choke, i cough.
they laugh,
and point. they begin
to joke at my expense
and shake
their heads.
a drink, please, i ask.
so they give me
a glass of water.
sandwich? i plead. just
a small one,
if you don't mind.
i'm starving. i don't want
to die hungry.
tuna, perhaps, no crust.
and maybe a small pickle,
chips on the side.
they shrug and set
down their rifles.
they bring me a sandwich
and a dill pickle.
we sit in the shadow along
the wall.
we begin to talk. to learn
each other's names.
i ask about their families.
how old their children
are.
they show me pictures
of their loved ones,
their girlfriends,
their pets.
their humble homes
along the border.
then it's time. some of
them are weeping, some
are sad and can hardly
look at me as they stand
me up against the wall
and drop
the blind fold around my eyes.
they say they are sorry as
they shake my hand.
our job, they say. our job.
i hear the guns click, i
hear the leader count down,
then they fire
all at the same time.
and that's it.