We sat in a weathered shack <br />Secure in our adolescent dreams, <br />Playing at cards and life. <br />Paper-winged cicadas sang <br />In the white pines, <br />While bullfrogs droned <br />By the gray-green pond. <br />Catfish broke with a splash <br />The shining mirror, and sleek <br />Water snakes wove their <br />Slimy way through velvet scum. <br />We, defiant, stood <br />Upon youth’s proud promontory <br />Shouting, “Life, we are ready! <br />We hear your beckoning! We come! ” <br />Bold but blind, <br />We could not see the chasms then, <br />Nor feel the damning curse <br />Of a misplaced trust. <br />Deaf, we could not hear <br />The shutting door, <br />The fumbling fingers, <br />The cold, calculated click, <br />Or the sickening, muffled roar <br />Of a shotgun blast <br />Shattering bone, and brain, <br />And lives, and lives, and lives. <br /> <br /> (circa 1980)<br /><br />William B. Watterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cousins-4/
