The Winter of Our Discontent

I'm discontent that you just went.
You did not think to say good-bye.
You were intent — you had to die.

You could have asked if it was time.
You could have stopped and changed your mind.
You might have seen that life was fine,
but you were not the waiting kind.

You had to leave — the bags were packed.
The dice had rolled — the odds were stacked.
I wonder if you thought of us
before you caught the winter bus?

The coach rolled quickly through the snow.
But why that night — I do not know.
Is there a 'why'?  There's just a 'how'.
There is the 'here', the 'sad', the 'now'.

And now, we cough and ache and groan —
all creatures always die alone.
All ticket-holders must let go
and board the bus amid the snow.

The driver grins at all aboard.
The rich, the poor can all afford
this one-way ticket into night.
Into the dark?  Toward the light?

But aren't there things we've left undone?
And aren't there 'love yous' left unsaid?
To us, to her, to everyone?
It makes no sense to just be dead!

We can't make sense.  We needn't try.
The winter's cold, the morning — dark.
We wake and ponder on the sly:
what if that bus had stayed in park?