My estranged daughter,
I wait news of my mother's
Survival or demise.

Holy water,
A crucifix
Wait nearby,
I know the emptiness of agonized prayer,
Of groaning alone in sanctuary,
Of feeling only limbo,
Only limbo.

It's August.
I shudder
January cold.

I have seen my share of old men
Sitting early in diners:
Widowers, perhaps,
Or never-weds,
Seldom women,
Excepting tired street people,
Tattered bags sprawling
Disheveled out of the wet,
Leaving only when the manager
Steps up with a bottle of soapy water
And a cleaning rag,
The polite symbol of
"It's time to go."

Fast food,
No place to rest,
Up and moving before the family crowd
Can see the riff-raff
Who sat these chairs earlier,
Who hunker now on some lee-side wall
Against the chill spring rain.

He was a shadow of himself, the man I came to see.
Time had robbed him of his strength; sapped his vitality.
This man who rode the badlands, this man who’d hunted game,
leaned on his cane to greet me; In fear of why I came.

We long had been acquaintances, I wouldn’t style us friends.
He was a politician, I’m a newspaperman.
I bore bad news to Sagamore Hill; He wouldn’t take it well
It was ill tidings I’m afraid, that I’d been sent to tell.

He had four boys in Khaki clad, all serving then in France
His youngest, Quentin, was a pilot, a fair haired figure of romance.
I think he knew before I spoke the reason why I came.
I saw it **** the boy in him as I pronounced the name.

The “old lion” died months later. He had so long been ill.
After Quentin’s death his father seemed to lose his will.
He was a shadow at the end, a soul adrift at sea.
I prefer to think of Teddy as the man he used to be.

Rowdy girls laughing over dinner,
A thousand miles from home,
Joking about their families,
Their mothers and their dads,
Unwinding after the hard work
Of righting some of Harvey's mess.
Time to celebrate through laughter....

I noticed her brown study stare,
Gazing toward the open court,
And she was tired,
Far from home,
The stress of travel and ***** work behind,
Stress levels coming down,
And she was letting down.
I knew there was more,
And I waved a hand,
And she came back from where she'd been,
Sad smile in her eyes.

I knew she' been contemplating life,
Thoughts of her father, gone two years,
Who'd traveled the aisle silently,
Taken before he saw the woman she'd become,
The nurse she'd be, things most parents live to see.

I saw all these things in her far-away gaze,
I empathized and prayed.

May Jesus comfort her;
May He give her life chock-full of joy.
May His Spirit bring her those who see her heart,
And cherish her for who she is.
May the Father reassure her of His love...,
Some day reunite her with the father she still loves.

I know that she was tired; her gaze was fleeting.
I hope she pardons me an open book for reading.

Crouched beneath March winds
Howl the songs of wolves
Against cloud-scudded skies,
Leafless, bending only little,
Insensate, but howling still,
Straining against night winds.

First cold and wind must pass
Before the softness-es of Spring
Coax life from roots below the frost,
Reminding me that nothing's lost.

"That" is reserved for the cat,
While you are always a "who."

Cold settled in deep
On him and their son,
A poor fool, lost in his own world,
Scarcely aware his mother was gone.

The boy's father couldn't cope...
Tried, but hope with her had died.
Bankrupt faith, spent in futile prayer
To cure the failing heart,
Restore the lungs...
A silent "NO" hung in the air,
And she was gone.

Her ashes flew home beside him.
He went to pick up his son,
Stopped for three fifths of Scotch...
Proceeded to disappear,
Proceeded to disappear,
Proceeded to disappear.

The house suffered under stench:
Old *****,
Excrement,
*****,
Spilled bottles,
Cans scattered on the floor;
Everywhere a sour putrescence.

His son floated in and out of vision,
Autism and inebriation:
Two forms debilitation,
No hope of equilibration.

Neighbors made some calls...
Social workers came,
Took the son away.

Death seemed a reasonable option.
Leave the mess.
Join his wife.
End this ******* life....

Revolvers favor simplicity:
Load the chambers,
Snap the cylinder in place...
Aim closely to remove his face.

Muzzle up,
Open mouth,
Squeeze the hammer down...
Only a clicking sound.

Unusual, this...
Aim at the ground,
Squeeze off a round...
Ears ringing from the sound.

Raise the muzzle once again,
Bite ******* steel,
Squeeze the trigger down...
Again, a clicking sound.

Aim at the ground,
Blam! Potent round...
Set the revolver down.

"Hello. 911. What is your emergency?"

"Come get my gun;
I'm trying to **** myself."

Police arrive.
He's still alive.
Drunk and numb...
They take his gun.

Six weeks later, still in a haze,
He's told his story.
We are amazed,
But still he's found no calm for grief.

We struggle beside him,
Waiting for some sign,
Some reason why a gun
Should fail to fire...twice.

If you should read these words, my friends,
Please speak a prayer for a lonely man.
Ask for freedom from despair,
For peace and letting go,
For comfort and the hope of friends,
For better ends.
For better ends.
For better ends.