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Young Raymond worked the bakery
was up 'bout ten to three.
Just eighteen, still in high school he
had dreams of flying free.

He worked as hard as most grown men
then walked to school and slept.
Took all his wages home to Mom
who thanked him as she wept. 

His forte's were science and math
in those he could engage.
Yet beneath all his knowledge was
a silent, anxious rage. 

He dreamed, "I'll be an astronaut,"
but worked the fierce hot stoves.
"Impossible to soar," he'd think
while baking bread in loaves. 

Young Raymond lost his childhood by
the time he reached sixteen.
Quiet brilliant in mathematics he
soon knew bread as his dean.

Scattered among the loaves of bread,
the flour, water, yeast,
he lost that precious dream-hope and
became an aged beast. 

One fine May day in Physics class
with windows opened wide, 
most students lolling at their desk,
our Raymond jumped and died.

His skull was broken on the sidewalk
entrance to our school. 
Striding across the room's wood floor
he dove into a pool

of warm spring air as he took flight
toward impending death.
We gasped and ran toward the bay
while holding back our breath.

Some of us thought he'd stand upright
until we saw the blood.
Our teacher pressed the intercom
he'd shuddered at the thud. 

Somewhere inside that bright young mind
with dreams of soaring high,
the walls of Raymond's world caved in
and left him asking why?

Not old enough to be a man
yet lost to days of youth, 
his brilliant mind found no escape
he couldn't cipher truth.

Epilogue

While deputies worked at the scene
we all departed school.
With camera, tape, and clipboard they
applied fact-finding tools.

Yet none could reason why he jumped
and in May chose to die.
His teacher and the Sheriff would
return to find out why.

A physics book lay on his desk
a paper on the leaves.
Mathematically he'd worked it out,
two grown men were bereaved. 

He knew the precise distance from
the window to the walk.
His pen the feet per second for
his keen mind to meet shock.

He'd chosen one three story flight
over stacks and rowd of bread, 
abandoning the ovens that
had given him deep dread.

I think of him on fine May days
rich with ambrosial air.
I hope that Raymond soars the skies
and sees his world as fair. 

                               Losing Raymond
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