|A Small Dark Stain|
Looking down at the worn shag carpet
I saw a deep crimson stain at my feet.
It was all that was left of my poet,
who by his poems had been beat.
No one would ever really know
just where things had gone wrong.
Who could have known he was ready to blow
When his words sang such a sweet song?
At the funeral I paused and thought
of the small dark stain on the floor.
I remembered how he had always fought
with me, demanding so much more.
He took his life in selfish fashion.
He took my professor away from me.
The man who taught me all about passion
language, words and imagery.
I wanted to kick some rocks inside
his open hole of a grave.
He'd never know how much I tried,
how much I could have gave.
He wanted me to top myself--
each piece better than the one before.
Now, I figure, "What the hell
who's there to care anymore?"
As I left the cemetery that morning
I promised myself not to cry.
How could he leave with no warning,
why did he go off and die?
I dragged my desk across the room
against my bedroom wall.
It covered up that stain of doom
where you had ended it all.
Sitting down at the desk I wept
and wondered why you had left me?
Looked at the bed where we once slept
and suddenly I was angry!
I smushed my sweaty brown loafer
into that dark red stain...
Oh, mentor, my teacher, my editor,
you have not died in vain!
It was a cold March day like most others. It didn't stand out much except that was the day that they buried you…
(comment on this poem)