Buddha Thoughts (Hands On The Clock) Poem by Eric Cockrell

the old woman
shot and killed
the boy that broke in
and tried to rob her...

she sat staring into space
while the policemen
did their job...
suddenly she began to weep...

they tried to comfort her,
but she just wept harder.
they told her it was over,
that she was all right.

she finally spoke in a broken voice:
'i was thinking about my son...'
'where is he? we'll get him
for you, bring him to you...'

'he's in prison... he got messed up
on pills... ran out, and robbed a store...
he killed the woman behind the counter.'
frozen in deathlike silence,

one by one, they looked down.
they loaded the body into the wagon,
her old cat ran from the porch...
an empty swing hung from a gnarled old tree...

a small trail of blood,
and there was no wind!
her old Bible unopened...
the hands on the clock kept crawling.