Couldn’t you have stayed a bit my dear?
Couldn’t you have waited, lived bright and big as your broad grin?
What devil took you up that night,
to drop you on the floor at three,
to know for certain we could do without you?
Couldn’t that river, torpid, dark, have scared you off,
made you put your pennies back
turned away from that flow
gone back to bed like us and deeply sighed?
Oh the things your eyes will miss!
The look of desolation at your retreating form
the space in bed that becomes a great abyss
eyes that search through doorways halls and rooms
flowers that bend your way as you softly go
grass that still cries out for your ambling tread,
all things will miss you now you’ve gone.
Couldn’t you have stayed a little while?
Couldn’t you have waited?
Such a brutal thing you’ve done to yourself my dear.
What black hooded judge hammered out that final charge
so you should not just sit upon that chair
not climb that ladder to the top
not gob down all those pills
nor scream the engine down the road
not take the gun down from the shelf
the thousand final judgements
passed on yourself whom we so much love.
We pin a medal on your big unhappy chest
thrust bouquets of wishes hopes and prayers
that is now so silent.
Now you’ll rest
so suddenly gone,
so utterly missed.