He carried it home on his brow.

I always thought the face,
was such a conspicuous place,
to carry such a weight,

but he never put it down.

~

Every crack in the pavement,
was a canyon for him to cross,
and taking steps towards her house,
was the hardest thing of all.

Her dog greeted him fondly,
Whiskey didn’t have a clue,
and he thought as he looked up
that maybe she was clueless too.

She smiled as she hurried
down the stairs in her old shirt,
the blue one with the bear on it,
and thats what made it hurt.

He took two shaky steps back,
nothing here was right,
and as his hand brushed cold metal,
stars crowded out his sight.

Whiskey’s tail stopped wagging,
just like that he stood still,
and all three stood waiting,
man and dog feeling the chill.

She lifted up her hands,
placing them on fragile hips,
tilted her head to speak,
but before she could part lips,

The alien sight of the gun,
in the familiar living room,
the sudden BANG of violence,
in the quiet, ****** home.

The startled gruesome twist,
on her pretty, young face,
and the bear on her shirt,
a hole in its place.

The bright red of the blood,
pouring onto pink floor,
the howl of the dog,
the slam of the door.

He carried it all home,
avoiding crevices as he went
because he knew better than she did,
not to test cracked cement.