Last Rights Those things I killed, some birds, a dog, Will haunt me when I'm on my death bed, Looking at me with such sad eyes. I still hear them as they chirp or bay, See them Jutting and flitting from limb To limb, dashing blindly into the street After a dirty old tennis ball; they will Stand at my grave, sad, sorrowful creatures, Stupid with resilient, childlike forgiveness, And wish they could pick flowers to place on My coffin, and I'll be sorry, really sorry.
David Miller's Questions:
To the reader, does my poem capture the essence of a man regretfully
looking back with shame on the sins of his youth, yet still capture the
lingering contradictions which arise from a juevenile understanding of
crime and punishment, heaven and hell, life and death?
Is it too transparent, too narative in style?
What might I do to improve the poem?