Behind him sat a body
Who? I don’t know who
Just a head of hair—un-descript.
Off the grill came the eggs?br>The waitress had brought the coffee before.
He talked about suicide (and his girlfriend,
now, both alienated)—rippled it, it out of
his mouth. Through the window the sun struck
my eyes. “I will, I will, I will commit suicide,?br>he cried. His body working into a gallop.
He smothered his lips with food and
coffee. A machine to breathe out of, was
all he was. Flies, flying round his, his sweat
soot, covered cloths, buzzing near my food;
his odor was of booze. What could I say to
the almost dead? (That I hadn’t already said
((I asked myself)). Everything was gloom?br>as if he had the Black Plague, and he knew?br>He knew I could not offer him anything better,
so he put a hole in his head, and died instead.
#767 7/21/05
Note by the author: “Alas, this is a true account, and since it has been 13-years, I now can writer about it more clearly. I have learned in my counseling years (now history), when we cannot offer someone something better, than what they already have (or feel they have, and it is pretty well set in their minds), be it booze, dope, gamboling, women, money, or whatever it may be? why would they leave their plans, for your offer, which they have already devalued under their valued system as less than what they have—they won’t (if silence comes, they are waiting for a new offer you may not have). They may tell you what you want to hear, but it will never turn out to your liking, unless it is really better in their eyes (your offer, that is). I don’t blame myself; I just wish I had had a better offer.
Dennis Siluk, Poet and Author, his books can be seen at most any internet book dealer: http://www.bn.com or http://www.AllDirect.com