It's Too Bad About Bob

There's the suicide. He's on the floor.
We can examine him. A halo of no-
Longer-liquid blood lies all around
His head. The gun he used is near
His hand. The officers have found
A note. They've taken it. We cannot
Read to learn what motivated him
To make the choice to cease to be.
It doesn't matter, we decide. There's
So much that we have to do. Perhaps
He thought he had a spirit to take
Pleasure from our sorrows, but he
Didn't, and we'll soon forget him,
Anyway.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 33 times
Written on 2020-03-06 at 03:05

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