by Tom Wyatt
Father of Johnny
Why? I thought I’d stopped asking that one, it’s been a year;
Why did he die? why isn’t it better?
why can’t I stop the tears?
It’s worse today than the day that he died;
The shock is gone, there’s no place
for me to hide.
I’m reliving his last days, but I
know how this story ends;
At four-fifty on Thursday, death will take my boy again.
A year he’s been away, my God what a short time;
But its an eternity of missing a
little boy like mine.