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
Copyright © Paul Warren | Year Posted 2020
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