(****Editor's Note: I wish I could write poems about flowers and waterfalls and puppy dogs, but my creative juices cannot and do not flow in that direction. Hence, Memorial Day, a poem which popped into my head while lounging in the backyard last Memorial Day weekend.)
Memorial Day
by Steve Peacock
They found him
in the hammock
in the back yard, the Best
of Chekhov and a blue
hard-covered Bible
stacked to his left, right
hand clutching a
cell phone whose last
function was to dial
9-1-1, a call
cut short
when a spilled pint
of pilsner scorched its
circuits, shutting down the device
before he could tell
the operator about
the pain in his chest,
the numbness in his arm,
the need to say ‘I love you’
to his wife and
to his daughters,
a dying declaration
relegated to mere thought
and never
to leave
his lips.
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