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I had finished my poem with words that transported me to

A place I did not want to be. It had gotten off track taking me

Back to a night on a train from London to my home in Cambridge

Which I’ve tried in vain to forget. It was my son on the phone.

The one that was haunted by doubt about not measuring up to

Standards he had set for himself. He could not bear to compare

Who he was with who he wanted to be. But that need was never

So strong that he wrongfully measured himself. He flaunted

Failures like victory flags. He had launched another national Tour

That cost him his pride and was searching for another place to hide.

A search that dragged him to the brink of despair and was

Threatening again to end his life when my train hurtled into a

Tunnel ending his call. The next day A policeman called to say

“Your son is dead.”

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1 Comment

Such a tragic sorry, Glen.

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