Harold Arnett

Another song from Spoon River Anthology. This one about suicide. The last about spiritual emptiness. Masters is a laugh-riot.

I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick,
Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm,
Weak from the noon-day heat.
A churchbell sounded mournfully far away,
I heard the cry of a baby.
And the coughing of John Yarnell
Bedridden, feverish, feverish, dying.
Then the violent voice of my wife:
"Watch out, the potatoes are burning!"
I smelled them … then there was irresistable disgust.
I pulled the trigger … blackness … light …
Unspeakable regret … fumbling for the world again.
Too late! Thus I came here.
With lungs for breathing … one cannot breathe here with lungs,
Though one must breathe … Of what use is it
To rid one's self on the world,
When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?