Savoir-faire

He hadn't wished in a long time.
The wood of the bench is flaked,
Chipped, wet with dew from
The early morning.
He hadn't taken a walk in a while.
The sky is dreadful,
Black and weeping from
A night of storming.
His steps had never been so slow.
Thoughts foul as the screams
That tear from the sewage grate
Beneath his feet.
He'd never thought about it like that.
They weren't screams before,
Just the rainwater's waste
Rushing beneath the asphalt.
His breath came thick with smog.
A Ford screams past the gully,
And the dead pine needles slide from
Under pleading feet.
He hadn't breathed right in ages.
The rain coughs and splutters,
But it had never died while
The road crept on.
He'd never been so scared.
The road ends here,
But the rain breathes on for
A moment more.
He willed his grave to dig itself.
The tree, ever so beautiful as his
Innocent arms wrap themselves
Around the sandy trunk.
He never thought he'd actually hope for this.
The bark unfeeling as
The tears of sap coursing
Through the crevices.
He'd never actually wished.
But the arms didn't feel at home anymore,
Tightly grasping at
His dead wife.
The World sends his deathly wish.
And, embracing Nature,
He dies just as
The rain stops.