Sunday greeted with normality
But stole a friend too soon.
You never guessed that the afternoon
Would bring along a fatality.

You say a few words:
"I'm coping, love"
But my friend, I know
You're lonely as the birds.

Does it eliminate excessive salt
From the wound since you knew
That his time was almost due?
Or do you feel like God's at fault?

I know you're looking at pictures
Of his happier times
Even as I write this line.