The room is cold,

Shadows hide like devils.

Ben has died and lies in his lounge chair with the television playing still.

 

When he was a child, he spent one summertime building a billy-cart

And racing it down the hill against his brother

Who didn’t fear the slope

But could not build as well.

 

Once a man working for his father

Hanged himself in the shed.

Ben found him in the morning.

The man was well dressed, clean,

But his head was crooked at a strange angle

And a queer look of death pulled at his relaxed face.

Ben never forgot.

 

The room is quiet in death,

Paid bills sit in a pile,

Unpaid are clipped to the refrigerator door.

 

When Bill married

He cried on his wedding day

And turned his face from his bride, who smiled and touched his face

So gently, so kindly, the world took a breath. A kindness between two people

So gently expressed

And Bill never forgot her kind touch.

 

In the kitchen, a chocolate Ben had saved sits still on the bench.

He will never enjoy it now.

 

 

See Anvil Soul, my latest novel here: https://www.amazon.com/Anvil-Soul-David-OSullivan/dp/1941541593/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1474885651&sr=8-1&keywords=anvil+soul