Harold Arnett

I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick,
Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm,
Weak from the noon-day heat.
A church bell sounded mournfully far away,
I heard the cry of a baby,
And the coughing of John Yarnell,
Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying,
Then the violent voice of my wife:
“Watch out, the potatoes are burning!”
I smelled them⁠ ⁠… then there was irresistible disgust.
I pulled the trigger⁠ ⁠… blackness⁠ ⁠… light⁠ ⁠…
Unspeakable regret⁠ ⁠… fumbling for the world again.
Too late! Thus I came here,
With lungs for breathing⁠ ⁠… one cannot breathe here with lungs,
Though one must breathe.⁠ ⁠… Of what use is it
To rid one’s self of the world,
When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?