Dead at seventeen--
who was he?
Lying in a puddle
of his pee,
of his puke,
of his peace
quickly coming up upon him,
at his weak
and nodding knees.

He was held up by indifferents,
who wiped his muddy cheek
and said, "We're almost their,
Sit up, buddy; breathe."
Sit up, buddy; breathe.

Who was he?
Who almost kicked it,
almost pulled the trick,
with half a gallon of spirits,
wet with glee?
Who slammed the door
with one leg out the window?
Ring him, please;
tell him he's a cheat.

He smacked his head
on the slate,
before his first date,
before he really, truly cried.
On his mother's birthday,
he could not walk
or sign a card.

Who was he?
Who woke up
to tubes and beeps
coming out of everything
except his feet?

Who's mother was crying
while a son started turning into meat?
After the midnight hour clanged,
closing another year hanged,
who's mother's heart panged?
Who was it lying there--
innocence at bedside, dying...

Dead at seventeen, almost--
who was he?
Who was he almost?
...almost me.

05/06/2008

Author's Note: I misread a title to another poem as "Dead at Seventeen". I typed it then started following it; it turned into a real reflection of a long time ago.
O, prudent Muse, how you whisper in the strangest ways!

Posted on 05/06/2008
Copyright © 2026 Ryan Nardi