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Helping Steve
Not one of us could help poor Steve
Though not through lack of trying
This hound upon his risky trail
Was hell-bent on his dying
A family outcast cut adrift
He day by day grew keener
To pull a final exit stunt
Before his frame grew leaner
From brazen fool to icy cool
And never the abstainer
His grandiose went comatose
On spheroid pain containers
Sunday night, ten forty-five
Our fine eccentric hero
Took his bumpy gurney ride
With heart rate pegged at zero
Post mortem at the Steamworks Pub
We sat in awkward silence
Whose lax omission led to Steven’s
Self-inflicted violence?
We all knew that some day he
Would leave unnaturally
If someone sleeping at the switch
Supplied him with the key
Not one of us could help poor Steve
But don’t be too unkind
For certain fools and certain saints
Demise is predefined
[Apr 6, 2005]
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The
Poetry of Daniel Harrison