Death by Despair (or a random bullet)

I sat watching her body

lie in the pauper’s coffin

and the spectators

as they reformed and performed

on the altar of a holy building

perfectly painted sun glassed faces

streaked with strategic tears

one eye cocked at the audience

and authentic mourners

they say that she lingered in a coma

say that she passed from a trauma

truth is

she died of despair (and a random bullet)

as she walked

unobtrusively

through the littered streets

waded among the human and inanimate

debris

to a house that was never

her home

too young to be so hopeless

so innocent

to be damned and listless

Mother says she loved her

Mother says her little girl was always so

quiet

quite an unassuming dormant

mouse

Mother forgetting the days

nights

weeks

months

she lay blissfully drunk

oblivious

to her child’s softly piping whispered pleas

of fried chicken, 'tator salad and apple pie

promised over and over but never prepared

of body, hair and clothing

never washed, beribboned and lovingly enfolded

of letters, numbers and stories

infrequently, drunkardly, reluctantly read or taught

of silly songs and ditties and the itsy bitsy spider

never with giggles and wiggles, sung

of maternal hugs and kisses, and make her feel betters

rarely felt, seldom offered and received

the bottle tends to blur and obscure these

memories, realities

transmutating miraculously into

revisionist inanities

one, who loved the child

sits quietly, angrily witnessing

the spectacle

wondering and grieving

why death by despair (and a random bullet)

never strikes the

guilty

Note: Originally published Sept 2007 by Aforementioned Poetry