POETRY

Our dark mahogany radio
like Karen Carpenter's,
often sang sad songs
in a foreign tongue.

I used to ask why,
on such a nice day outside?
And didn't it happen long ago?
Wasn't it just natural that
we come and go?

But my mom would turn it up
and softly cry.

I vowed to myself,
a little self-righteous man*,
to let them get their fill
but to shield my spirit
from the smallest sigh.

I often return to death.
If I take it as a friend,
as the enemy of my selfishness
(which is a sin after all),
as a path for my children,
only then I could prepare
what I leave behind.
A better world may not be,
but surely something beautiful?

Jam07

(*) pretend hippie.