(No, I'm not apologizing to Thomas Hardy)

The more he thought of it
The more it seemed,
He shouldn't even be here,
Sitting in a chair,
Beside a lamp,
Enjoying food
That tasted
Nearly home cooked,
Well,
Eating it,
If not enjoying it,
Musing on his last encounter
Ever
With fear.
Why am I  here?
Why is he not?
He wasn't old enough
To shave,
Was he?
Had time and opportunity
Been different by a bit,
It might be me,
Cold and forgotten
In a pool of blood,
Never hearing that
My son had walked,
And he'd have been back home
With his Mom,
Safe and snug,
All ready to **** again.
Perhaps that boy
Was old enough to shave,
After all.