Waiting, with deadly intent,
two hours the child
of nine spent
rocking
in a chair he sat
surrounded by night,
quitely without light
musing.
Would the news
come by phone
while he was alone
gloating?
Or would the police arrive
to tell him sadly
mom had died
driving?
And drunk it was true
they wouldn't say
but he already knew.
Sighing
they wouldn't see
the smile that shouldn't be
hiddin inside as he
crying
told; the money
he had given
help send mom to heaven,
leaving
as she said she would
this nasty child
who was good for
nothing.
The message finally came
stunned he fell
faint, half insane
listening
to talk of carnage
at the crash site,
on his childhood's last night.
Dieing
three boys in a car
hit head on, but
mom was, thrown afar;
living.
Fifty years the child
has spent, each guilty
moment in repent,
grieving.
Honorable winner
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