That Year 1968
Father died that year. So did
Bob Kennedy, although that
Was a different death, planned
Right down to the last dark detail.
But your father’s was more personal,
More hurtful, getting right into your
Bones and heart. You were sitting
In the doctor’s surgery with your
Father where he’d come about pains
In the chest and back, when some guy
Came in and said, Bob Kennedy’s dead,
Some bugger’s shot him (excuse my French,
He added, there women being present) .
There was muttering amongst the throng,
Whispers, coughs, splutters, then a silence
Deeper than awaiting death by your father’s
Elbow, seemingly deeper than Nietzsche’s
Haunting eyes. Your father said nothing
That you recall, but no doubt he felt the
Same sadness that most felt that day,
The waste of a life, a fine brain blown out
Like some candle in a dark room, another
Organized snuff out by some rogue element
Of government backrooms. Father died
That year unbeknown by the world at large
(As if it cared) , but death was just as certain
And thorough when it came, sweeping him
Silently from the hospital ward, his link to
Life cut like a bloodied umbilical cord.
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