Harold Arnett
17 lines✦
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 breatheOf what use is it To rid one’s self of the world,When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?
✦