First of Four Last Things
Just six years old, she runs
over sidewalks past shuttered
shops, hopscotching cracks, slapping
window panes with her Halloween
wand. Long hair blown across
her face by fall's northerly winds,
she trips off the curb, doesn't see
the old pickup truck chattering
her way. Early in the
Morning.
Thus endeth the life of a little girl
Wife of the century holds
withered hand in her own palm. Beds,
curtained like cabins on a beach, sag.
Sons weep. Patient tries a smile,
splashing color to the gray room,
feels good, glances around,
tired a bit, takes one last breath,
dies. Late in the
Afternoon.
Thus endeth the life of an old man.
She loves the sun behind the mountain
going down for day's ending, pats
her Dachshund, buttons up old sweater
to warm evening's cool, unbuttons.
Doesn't matter, does it?
Pain blanches eyes lowering down
on twilight. There will be no other
Day.
Thus endeth the life of a single woman.
It is a dark and stormy night
among trees grasping to hold him still.
He empties his weapon, a backwards
burst at chasing feet thudding into
his heart. Felt more than heard,
slugs zing, whir on by. Branches moan.
Dropping sterile Glock, he stumbles, stares.
Bullet gores eye, sloshes into brain,
killing him. In the
Night.
Thus endeth the life of a hit man.
Priest blesses himself, meditates
alone on his own death, practices
what he preaches to others,
conjures fantasies,
When and Where and What,
whispers "Lord, Lord " in reverie,
hears not "Come, follow me."
Different now. "Come, be with me."
Eternity begins at
Midnight.
Thus endeth the life of a monk.
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