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Hell Is A Lonely Place
MS (8.4.1929 / Marton, Lancashire)

Hell Is A Lonely Place

he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer's disease.

he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were
operations, radiation
treatments
which decayed the bones in his
jaw
which then had to be
wired.

daily he put his wife in
rubber diapers
like a
baby.

unable to drive in his
condition
he had to take a taxi to
the medical
center,
had difficulty speaking,
had to
write the directions
down.

on his last visit
they informed him
there would be another
operation: a bit more
left
cheek and a bit more
tongue.

when he returned
he changed his wife's
diapers
put on the tv
dinners, watched the
evening news
then went to the bedroom, got the
gun, put it to her
temple, fired.

she fell to the
left, he sat upon the
couch
put the gun into his
mouth, pulled the
trigger.

the shots didn't arouse
the neighbors.

later
the burning tv dinners
did.

somebody arrived, pushed
the door open, saw
it.

soon
the police arrived and
went through their
routine, found
some items:

a closed savings
account and
a checkbook with a
balance of
$1.14
suicide, they
deduced.

in three weeks
there were two
new tenants:
a computer engineer
named
Ross
and his wife
Anatana
who studied
ballet.

they looked like another
upwardly mobile
pair.

User Rating: 4,4 / 5 ( 8 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

Interesting word, eked. This is a poem that flitters in my mind with a surprising and thought provoking lull.
I enjoyed this... i often dont understand your poems, probably because you have a more mature view, but this made me smile.
I enjoyed your sense of humor. Rusty
Michael, this is witty, and aa gentle nudge to unbelievers like myself to perhaps look at man through God's eyes on occasion. I may as well weigh in about poets who fire their genius out in machine gun bursts rather than set up like a sniper for one good telling shot. I usually read 5-6 of a new poster's poems, figuring like most people, that they've introduced themselves by putting their best foot forward.. If I read nothing I find worthwhile I'll usually just scroll past them in the future (sorry Aram) . I've discovered a couple new poets that I need not concern myself with today. It's too bad, but with so much GOOD poetry on the site, one would advise the newcomers to try to make an impresseion with QUALITY, not quantity. One good poem that will live beyond them is an achievement that poets strive for. It would be sad to think that I'd missed that poem because the poet had buried it under a mass of unpolished and hastily posted work. I know of one regular contributer to this site whose work that I've often said that I admire who could benefit from this advice as well. Him I read every poem he posts though, because he's proven to me that he's capable of brilliant work.
Valid for whom? And who, while not wishing to discourage them but rather the reverse, will warn such prolix poets that quantity and repetition may be affecting their own quality - and worse, rutting their mind into a person, a persona, that is not really them - so full of their own thoughts to the exclusion of thoughts about others? Pooh - or if you prefer, poo.
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