Born sixty years ago, today.
His toy creations took lots of room.
Creative play was his forte;
All expunged one sunny afternoon.
How are we such an event to weigh?
It made the cosmos seem out of tune,
So its music never again would play.
But no one else knew it, nor saw our gloom.
Some asked about her bandages.
Each answer brought more questions, ‘til:
“He’s going to be alright -- - isn’t he?”
Oh, question dreaded most of all!
“He’s dying in a hospital,” we say.
As we, taking tea and scone,
Get through another day.
And return to his hospital room,
Where his frail little body lay,
Now many colors -- - black, yellow, red, maroon.
He should have lived ‘til his hair turned grey.
Death came far too soon.
Sandy would have been sixty today.
He died before he was six.