LOVE’S LABOR LOST
John had the “con,” the Doctor said. He stayed around the house and read Most of the time or worked at such Chores as would not exert him much And slept on the veranda where The Doctor thought was better air.
Each little thing the family knew Would make him happier, they’d do. “He won’t be with us long,” they’d say, Then scrap and wrangle on, the way That families do when rounding curves, Each getting on the other’s nerves With back-bite, spit-fire—loading full The fleeting hours per usual.
At times of utmost unction, Bill Would be the goat—on him they’d spill The general peeve and blame. Bill stood The gaff to help the common good. One day Bill up and got the flu And did what flu-folks sometimes do—
He died. Three days was all he took. He lay there in a curtained nook; It hit them sort of by surprise To see him there with calm, closed eyes And flowers all ’round and all so still. They stood there looking down on Bill And sobbed as families do when caught So sudden like—they looked and thought Of all the times they’d given him Hell; And John—oh yes, poor John got well.