Fallen

Drunk again
He tumbled down the stairs
Broke an antique spindle or two
And came to rest at the bottom
Silent

An arm was bent in places that arms don’t bend
His eyes were open
And his jaw appeared cocked
As if about to detach,
An impossible grin
Or howl
On his face
Like a maché mask placed there
To scare the children

There was a perfect film of dust over him
And a fly meandered across his face
Unrespecting
Unrespected
And natural

There was a wall of stench in the air
That would floor a defensive line
And a silence so pure
No philharmonic would dare sound a note

I don’t think the sense of shock I,
The son,
Felt
Can be rendered in words;
There is only the finality we all know
That creeps
Always creeps
And eventually, seen coming or unexpected
Arrives in whatever way—

     Obscene or peaceful
     Long or sudden
     Heroic or in shame—

And settles at the bottom of the stair
A fallen angel
Another fallen angel
Who died alone.