Tryge
Filtered through lattice fence,
Broken mosaic scene
Of mulling cops and medical teams.
Source of pop was now plain --
Neighbor Tryge put a hole in his heart
With a .44 caliber.
On back stoop,
Muzzle to chest,
He stopped what ailed him.
For three hours the body patiently lay
Awaiting homicide and crime lab,
Coroner and his wagon.
When all pictures were made, every measurement taken,
Hands were placed in little paper bags
Like single convenience store beers.
Dark stain left on concrete step,
Bullethole through whitewashed wall.
He wasn't always so blue.
The dog was taken next door,
his wife was away in Florida.
He never looked so peaceful,
While the cops talked football
And joked about things living and dead.
1996. David J. L'Hoste. All rights reserved.