On His Death

Something had to be said
of this.
His death,
like his corpse,
occupied the middle
of the traveled way.

Though we circled around it,
it could not be avoided.

Someone had to speak.
Had to risk sounding trite
or thoughtless,

to be charged as careless
or insensitive.

Still alive,
those of us who remained,
still tended
towards mistakes.

And people talk about those.

I watched,
with nothing to understand,
aware he was gone.

Waited,
to hear
the next words spoken.