This is from an assignment in AP Lit and Comp. Having not written a poem for a long expanse of time, I wanted to make this one count for more than a grade.
I called you yesterday.
Down in Mort's shed,
we found what we needed to find
and did what we needed to do.
Yeah.
Drink up, drink it in.
There wasn't a flip-flap in your jim-jam
and the window was open.
Oh, dunderbill.
But no body.
I peered--
I poked my head outside.
I could smell the wind.
Dry, soft and warm.
Dirt.
But no body.
I saw where you laid.
It still held your shape,
where you laid
where we burned
ending a summer's night eve.
Tinged,
No, marked (opaque).
He had it marked down, pegged, even.
Ah, the meaning he had surmised.
Or was it fear?
No, fearful men never throw themselves.
Just the meaning, just the meaning.
He threw himself down
I wrote something on the wall.
Burned it, really.
There was smoke in the air.
I could taste it in the bottom of my throat.
Like heavy ashes
looming in my body
a heavy reminder of things past.
There will be no ashes for this one.
No coffins, either.
Only a marking.
For he's gone.
No signs of movement or anything else.
Only a marking where he lay.
I lost you.
Just disappeared.
No trace.
No solution.
Gone.
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