Henry Dorio Poem by Joseph Martin III

We were just fifteen-
you, me, and my best friend.
sitting inside the cool of your house
playing Dungeons and Dragons
on that Saturday afternoon
while sidewalks simmered in the sun

We hardly knew you at all.

You seemed rougher than us,
just a couple of steps from delinquent.
But for that afternoon we were friends,
and I even borrowed you a book.

We didn't know you at all.

On Monday morning
a teacher told us you were dead-
accidentally gone and shot yourself on Sunday.
But even we knew a rifle and a bullet in the head
is very rarely accidental, and we
were just fifteen.