Lamont Palmer Poems
Suicide In An Old House
Death surrounds us with blatant arms.
A sanitation worker dies and no one
cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight,
summoning the equally unknown people
to altars of rancor and resignation.
What do they do but recognize a human
in the grip of edgy, illegible lives,
the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes,
cold and incurable as dry, winter snow?
Bleak living room. Soon the owner won't live
in the area for living, the area's dark aria -
a moment of meth, mirth and minions.
Take that bystreet to oblivion,
to namelessness, to ...
Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark.
In Pennsylvania, a tear has left
youngish ducts, and blood has replaced it.
A schoolhouse was cold. In the wind comes more cold,
and comes a nightmare, dank at its edges,
dank as grass smothered under storms,
When blood played a part it never played,