Dead In His Shack

I looked at him sitting there With his head back in a stare He had a meal and sat right back And died that way as a matter of fact In a shack near the beach He built it when youth was within his reach And I wondered at his last thought When his heart gave out in its retort We placed him on the stretcher then The rigor mortis without a bend And a sheet across his face Into the ambulance for his last race. © Paul Warren Poetry