He walks inside;
beer-battered belly,
dirty hands,
grubby face.
He came home late,
again.

Sits there smoking his cigarette.
Ashes fall
from the end.
Black and white speckles fall
onto the floor
meaning nothing more
than a long day at work.
Regretless regrets,
hopeless hopes
for something more than this.

His life is a mess.
So much of a mess that
he decides to run away.
Throw away his pain,
his shame.
He ended it all that day
with a bullet and a gun or
a rope and a ceiling lamp.
The deed is done.

And now,
daddy's ashes sit on the floor.
All that’s left is the daughter
wondering "why are
daddy's ashes in a jar
on the bookshelf
staring at me through the night?"
Reminding her of how
his ashes used to fall on the floor,
simply meaning
nothing more.