Frank Machon is my first death:
when I first see her,
she was having trouble walking,
across the dark room,
to the breakfast on the table.
She couldn’t feed herself,
she needed help.
Spoon lifted to her mouth,
she couldn’t swallow.
She didn’t know why everyone was quiet,
she just sat there waiting.
Then we left,
to the funeral,
no one spoke a word.
No music was playing,
just the sound of muffled sobs.
Then we stopped,
got out the car,
she still didn’t know what was happening.
We walked to the headstone,
where Frank Machon lay,
with many chairs to sit on.
She got helped to the front,
everybody was crying.
Then the guns fired,
and the preacher started his speech,
then she knew what was happening.
Her dear husband was dead,
she started weeping.
Then I felt sick,
watching her tears fall down her face,
I looked around,
saw tears everywhere,
so I just looked down.
More guns fired,
and everybody left.
Time to go home,
and forget this horrible death.