As Is
There is a story I am loathe to write,
Of a scene I dare not paint,
That is etched in my worst imaginings.
Of the soul closest to mine,
By age and parentage,
Who no longer lives on this plane.
Whose heart was poisoned,
By whiskey and with hate,
And stopped at an unknown hour,
As he was flanked by mute companions,
His two dogs, who waited patiently,
For their breakfast, and would not leave his side.
His unseeing eyes fixed on a television program,
That he would not choose to watch;
The remote control eternally out of reach,
As is the anger,
As is the laughter,
As is he.
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"...a poem a day, keeps the shrink away!"
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