"____ committed suicide."

My neighbor took his life today

Five police brought with them the news

Around his house on the corner.

Their lights bright

With bad omens.

My neighbor took his life 

Sometime 

This weekend.

Alone in his house

Alone in his life

Alone in his loneliness 

That took his life.

On Tuesday they came with 

A locksmith 

Who opened the door

To find him

Alone in his house.

The house where he took his own life.

On Monday they asked

If people had seen him

Had heard from him

Sometime

To see if they should

Look in his house.

(The house where he took his own life.)

They came 

with cop cars,

“Police” big 

and intimidating

and ominous

across the sides.

No lights flashing

No emergency,

No crime to stop,

No lives to save.

Save the ones left behind.

Lives to be stitched up

With big 

Ugly thread

Around this big

Ugly hole.

They came 

with a van.

And I didn’t want to look

At the van.

At the house.

I didn’t want to look

Because I wouldn’t see.

There was nothing to see.

Not the family that moved in

the same time that we did.

Not the man who waved at me

every time I drove past.

Just memories.

Years of memories.

I can not see

But I can never 

Not think,

Not remember.

I think of the Christmas lights

that will never go up in the tree on the corner 

again.

I think of the car,

the white Chrysler Crossfire he drove and 

will never roar again.

I think of his house, 

Just like mine, 

But opposite, 

and wonder which room he died in.

I tread through my house and think,

here

or here

or maybe here.

And I can never not think.

I think thoughts I don’t want to think.

Like his children.

A boy and 

A girl

Three years apart,

Just like me and mine.

They will grow up 

Without

A father.

Without 

The knowledge of how he died.

“He was sick.

He died quickly.”

He was sick.

He shot himself though the head.

He was sick.

And it was easier to get a gun 

Than help.

I wonder who will live in his house.

I wonder if his wife will come back to the 

Empty house

With their children

In the house where he took his own life.

I don’t think so.

I wonder when the sign will go up

“For Sale”

I wonder if they have to put 

A Disclaimer

On the sign.

On the fliers.

“Death Lived Here”

I wonder if it will be a nice, happy, whole, healthy family

And if we will all look at them

With pity in our eyes

Because they will live

In the dead man’s house.

I think of the neighbor 

Who died in an accident 

Years ago.

I think of his family,

More kids without a father.

Another wife 

without a husband 

to love her 

and help her.

I think of them moving

300 miles away.

Maybe away from their ghosts.

Maybe to find a new home.

I think of who will drive those cars he had

Who will own his things

Who will do these boring, awful, 

Tedious things

That are a different kind of death.

I wonder if the cars will be kept

For his kids.

For years, until they can drive.

For the constant 

Reminder -

These are the dead man’s cars.

I wonder if I will ever be able to look

His beautiful,

Smiling

Children

In the face 

Ever again.

I wonder if I will have to.

I wonder things,

Horrible Things,

I don’t want to wonder.

I wonder if it was messy.

I don’t want to know

If it was messy.

I think it was messy.

I don’t want to know.

I wonder who will 

Clean up the messy.

There must be 

A Job

For that.

“Cleans mess 

From Suicide.

Physical

And 

Emotional.”

That is the worst job

I can think of.

There were cars today.

Cars around his house,

(The house where he took his own life)

Like an army come to protect.

Protect their sadness, 

Perhaps.

And another Police car.

I wonder 

How many more 

There will be.

I wonder

How long it will take

For me to look at this house

Just like mine,

But opposite,

And not think,

This is the house of 

The man I didn’t know

But knew for 14 years.

The man who was 

Someone I could never understand

The man who took his own life.

This is suicide.

How is it something 

Someone can “commit?”

Like a crime.

Go to Jail.

Be locked up.

Get help.

For thinking it is okay

To leave.

Go.

And then 

Come Home.

This is the dead man’s life.

And I am

So.

Fucking.

Angry.

That one, 

Over there.

That house.

That pink one,

Just like mine,

But opposite,

That is the house.

The house of the man who took his own life.

With a gun to his head.

And there will be shrapnel

For the rest of our lives.

(*This is, hopefully obviously, non-fiction.
Hopefully less obvious, I am not usually a poet,

But writing comes how it comes.)