Now that he's gone, who will know?

"Who Will Know?"

He wanted to stay.
He didn't ask for much.

He wanted to know what was "going on,"
He read the paper every day.

The world is like a sponge.
It absorbs us.

Mother was grieved with the nursing home.
He said, "Kiddo, it's all right."

The world goes on its way.
Now that he's gone, who will know?

by Joyce Kennedy, from Ghost Lamp © Laurel Poetry Collective, 2006