Death of an Optimist
Rocking back and forth
in the old oak chair
who’s reliability he never questioned,
the age-shriveled lover of
ladies, liquor, and life
took his final sip of scotch
from the half-full glass,
reminiscing of days past,
awaiting days yet to be lived.
As the pain seized him,
sending his tiny frame
to the dirt-covered
wrap-around front porch
floor, he smiled.
The antacid in his checkere
shirt pocket would relieve him
he thought.
Unable to lift his scrawny,
tree-limb arms to reach
for the reprieve resting in
his front pocket,
the old man realized
this was not heart-burn,
but heart attack.
And he was not heartbroken.
Closing his thin eye-lids
the old man shut out
the world he loved,
and prepared for the world
he prayed for.
Amongst the buzzing of knats,
the chirping of crickets,
the hum of flourecent light-bulb
and the smell of summer air,
the world lost
another optimist.