Silent Farewell

In English class today, Josh crumbles,

a linebacker dissolving by the windows,

while the drone of literature lessons hums on.

His eyes, usually hard as helmet steel,

spill their quiet thunder into his palms.

Seventeen years of softness curl into

a memory of paws tapping on floors,

Sophie, the dog who mapped his childhood,

now a fur-lined ghost in the backyard.

Gone, just as geometry seemed possible.

They both began their lives with small cries,

Josh’s first steps echoed by a wagging tail.

He buried his face in fur, every heartbreak,

now buried beneath the oak they climbed,

where two young bodies dared gravity.

Today, no armchair linebacker exists,

just a boy hollowed out in front of Wordsworth,

while classmates lose themselves in reveries,

unaware that love can depart on four legs,

and leave a linebacker unbraced for silence.