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| Jerry A. Judge | ||||
| Rhythm … and Richard Cory, one calm summer night, xxxxWent home and put a bullet through his head. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx…Edwin Arlington Robinson 3 a.m. From the living room, light from one lamp. Vincent is reading the poem over and over. Aching to pulverize his father’s bones, Vincent once, in his twenties, began to dig up the grave. When Vincent’s eyes close, he is eight and his hands are tied to the back of a kitchen chair. His father’s gin face in his face calling him trash like his mother, saying that he’s only good as a practice drum. The sticks beat to a rhythm that the band will no longer let his father play. Vincent’s life so carefully constructed with wife, job, two children. Vincent steps outside. Down the street, another house with a light on.
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