It was no surprise to me
to find Homer toppled
backwards in his chair,
his head the source of a
growing brook of blood.
But I couldn’t figure how
he’d got the gun, all those years
ago. Or why he’d chosen it,
surrounded as he was by swords
and rope. So inexpertly
had he done it that he was not yet
dead, and he just looked at me,
his mouth open wide and dumb
and just the hint of surprise
amid the closing clouds
of fear behind his eyes.
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