[You poor man, you poor man.]
"Nem én kiáltok," Attila József
I
fifty years ago
his eye fixated
dark vacant stare
two steel barrels
silent & not vacant
trigger gently fingered
squeezed firmly
& eternity rushed in
his disappearance
echoed along Wood River
passing beyond Sawtooths
who was he
avatar for all fathers
who look at their sons
pondering & wondering
how they failed them
wanting desperately
not to fail them
one more time
II
many times I traveled
down Williston Road
once while a storm
blew in off the Gulf
once in a swamp fog
once on a gibbous moon
waning & questioning
why you also chose
to disappear shedding
family & friends
suddenly & so easily
gone yet in plain view
many times I traveled
down this long road
III
traveling Williston Road
this time the last time
there will be no explanation
to my question why
no words at all this time
a plastic esophagus
offering bagged nutrients
respirator a constant clicking
IV
returning home now
this painfully familiar road
its skirtings of live oak
burdened with Spanish moss
approaching storms
swamp fogs & moons
whether waning or waxing
all soon to be forgotten
once blue edged flame
has taken all that remained
to its final disappearance
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