I do not usually do poetry, but after the suicide death of a former co-woker of mine last month, and upon learning how he had gone about it — something resonated inside of me to get words down on paper. I can’t imagine, being a teacher, the hurt that many of his students had gone through — and on top of that, his wife and his children. So, this is dedicated to him. Although I don’t agree with what has happened, his tragedy touched me.

– Mr. E. –

Stretching above the surface of the river
traffic unassumingly races from land to land

What makes it a good idea to abandon your
wife and your
and your hundreds and
hundreds of
What makes life so difficult that it becomes a good idea
to depart from it?

On the way down, does he regret it?
Does he see the smiling children pictured with his
wife and his
piled on the left side of a faded red couch
arms around arms around little bodies
smiling bodies.

In the paper, it speaks of a man
washed up down the river some days later
In this moment he is just a nobody and not a
teacher or a
father or a

The students don’t know how.
They know he is gone.
They know he is not coming back.
They leave messages lauding their coach and teacher.
Perhaps they may never know.

And the cars and the trucks and the bikes continue
across the bridge from one land to the next land
heeding the wind warnings as the current slithers under
the cars, pushing them back and forth across the dotted lanes.

Stretching above the surface of the water.
Stretching forever and upwards and upwards and upwards.