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.