A pie tin nailed to the head of the bed.
The mattress gone.
A tidy stack of books on the floor
At the foot of the bed,
A cairn on the path to nowhere.
The entire house claimed by deep silence.
Whatever was in his head
Was no longer there.
Anger, shame, terror blown out
Through the back of his skull.
Smoldering in a gravel lot
Where it had been dragged
The mattress soaked with his blood
Would not burn.