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37. Loss © Bruce Goodman 22 August 2017 |
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(The poetic form selected for this month is the standard habbie.) |
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For eighteen years I nursed and fed. I can’t believe, son, you are dead. I try to fathom things you said. I weep a bit - The life that we together led - The end of it. I’m here to clean out all your drawers; Your shirts and trousers, socks and smalls. I’ll pack them quick before I bawl. This coat I know! Too short for someone quite so tall! Such thoughts bring woe. I’ll leave it for another day. I cannot clear the past away. Someone else can pack, I say. I cannot hide The path you took when things turned grey - Your suicide. |