They had Stanley's wake yesterday:
he died, they believe, sometime last Monday;
his ex-wife had called him
to see if he wanted a ride
to his doctor's appointment;
and of course,
Stanley did not need a ride,
he was dead in his chair,
in his apartment,
while his dog played,
and tried to get Stanley's attention
(probably wanted to go for a walk;
those two walked everywhere together);
that's how old divorced men die.

I didn't like seeing Stanley in that box:
I remember him with a grin on his face,
and a hammer in his hand;

They buried Stanley today:
I didn't go;
I was just glad that he is free.

March 14, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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