To my parents on the death of their son.(Brief Article)

After his body had been removed from the house in the zippered bag you did not look at like a crime scene on the small screen had somebody left the television on? You felt like the watchers of a foreign grief, that poor mother and father your luck like a charm warm at the base of your throats your six children scattered but tight in all these years loss had swept through and left everybody standing and now this after his body had been removed, too warm a night to leave it the empty room stood as though it had never held him it was pointless to sit there but you sat, in turns, and drank beer and watched the cream wall as he would have seen it through a cobweb of pain that is now yours that wakes you at night hearts floating in your sad chests pushed by mortality, that bastard bully, into this after his body had been removed you watched the house like highly paid ...