Going Home for the Last -

Writing is not always easy. Those of us who are compelled, whether by our own ego, the desires of others, or some other force all together know this to well. I will not say too much on this poem except that it was written as a remembrance for a friend - for a friend.

I will never know

Like some samurai out
of the misty east's history
you -
glorious and melodramatic
to the end -
decided today enough
was enough.
How long I wonder
sometimes
did the courage need building?
A spontaneous act of strength?
Or a premeditated moment of debate?
Was there hesitation? When
you visited, sat chatting on
the couch after the fateful boat ride
there and back again did I miss
some hint? Some telltale sign
of what was in your mind?

Going home for the last -
your papers, files, letters all
neatly stacked where they would
be found without looking.
Did you pause then?
Or were you resolute to the
finish?

When I called you on Sunday
looking for a ride to the meeting
we never enjoyed,
never missed,
should I have known some
thing was amiss?
The phone rang - my calling you
for a change.
Was the deed already
done?
Or were you sitting, listening,
my voice echoing from the
machine as the pills flowed
through your veins and cold
steel waited warming in your
hands?

I will never know
my friend. I will never
know if I could have known,
never know what to have said,
nor even to think.
Just as a year later
these same questions again slid
through my head - a Mother dead.
I will never know.

Sometimes you are a coward.
Other times you are a hero.
And all the time?

You are my friend.

_{(DA 04/13 :: JL 04/13/2009)}