Suburban Elegy III

Last week
I walked past
plastic-lined homes
to a wetlands reserve,
where I cursed god,
and my loneliness
and felt my Anger almost
claw itself out of my tired muscles
as I screamed, smashing
a branch against its tree,
while my Sadness sat
nearby on a log,
looking on in almost
scientific curiosity.

Only days ago
a newly unemployed father
walked his two children past
those plastic-lined homes
to the wetlands reserve.
He was probably near the same
place I had been.
the boy in second grade,
the little girl in kindergarten.
He shot them there,
one in the stomach,
the other in the head,
before blowing a hole in his own.

Near the place I felt so angry
about things I can't even
remember now,
the place
where his daughter
must have felt glee
in the mid-morning sunshine,
about finally learning
the mysteries of the letter Z.
Where his son must have
grown restless in
waiting for summer,
but still his heart
almost shook
at the thought
of all the things
he had yet to learn.

Like forgiveness.