The day before, the day after.
The harshness of clay,
the cool air of night,
the end of fright.
His little girl lies still
under the willow.
A child of ten caught
smoking in the parking lot.
Suicide notes and pretty looks,
Mother's 45 was all it took.
Pulled the trigger and shot herself dead;
left her stomach strewn all over the bed.
I am sorry that you don't have a daughter anymore.
The criminal is dead and gone; she must go down.
Bring flowers to the funeral,
and weep your tears over the casket.
What can be said in so short a moment?
Hazy clouds over burning hay,
Days of leisure
and the unknown future.
Predators of glory
seeking the final words
of some long lost story.
Believing in fair tales
that time has turned stale.
Portable dreams
in rocky streams.
Ships cruising by
before mid-day tide.
Tell her father
that his words of anger
have sent his daughter
far far
away.
Robert Allison
08/04/85