Accident

There was no note, of course,
Because his death was not
A suicide, but things he'd
Done before the wreck,
While not quite strange,
Were unexplained. The
Little tasks he'd long put
Off, he did. He cleaned
The gutters, and he put
His tools in their box.
In fact, he cleaned the
Whole garage. He fixed
The back door's latch,
And asked us if we knew
Of other things we thought
Should be repaired. He
Seemed so quiet all the
Time, alone upon that
Wingback chair, staring
Through the picture
Window. Friends would
Call. He wouldn't answer.
He'd say he would call
Them back, but didn't,
And now this, the wreck.
They said he would have
Lived though it if he had
Had his seat belt on. For
Once, he hadn't. When
He'd been with us, he
Always had.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 59 times
Written on 2015-12-16 at 00:02

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