Father died that year. So did Bob Kennedy, although that Was a different death, planned Right down to the last dark detail. But your father’s was more personal, More hurtful, getting right into your Bones and heart. You were sitting In the doctor’s surgery with your Father where he’d come about pains In the chest and back, when some guy Came in and said, Bob Kennedy’s dead, Some ******’s shot him (excuse my French, He added, there women being present). There was muttering amongst the throng, Whispers, coughs, splutters, then a silence Deeper than awaiting death by your father’s Elbow, seemingly deeper than Nietzsche’s Haunting eyes. Your father said nothing That you recall, but no doubt he felt the Same sadness that most felt that day, The waste of a life, a fine brain blown out Like some candle in a dark room, another Organized ***** out by some rogue element Of government backrooms. Father died That year unbeknown by the world at large (As if it cared), but death was just as certain And thorough when it came, sweeping him Silently from the hospital ward, his link to Life cut like a bloodied umbilical cord.