The Telegram

At nine o’clock on Parkview Street,

A firm fist rapped against the door,

“I’ll get it mother,” said the lad,

 Who sprung up quickly from the floor

Eagerly, Little Johnny raced down the hall,

And swung open the door,

Revealing an officer with a grim expression,

Dressed in full uniform

“Good day, young man,” the officer greeted,

“Is your mother at home?” he remarked a little harder,

Little Johnny grinned from ear to ear, “Yes, sir, she is,”

“She is sewing in the parlor.”

In a flash, Little Johnny, with wings on his soles,

Fetched his mother who reluctantly followed,

Down the long hall and to the front door,

Where standing still the officer swallowed

“Ma’am,” the officer said gulping once more,

“I have a message for you and your son,”

And reaching into his satchel, he retrieved,

A manila telegram labelled, “Western Union”

The officer left and Little Johnny watched,

As tears sprung up in his mother’s eyes,

Helplessly, she sunk to the ground,

As she hurriedly glanced over the lines

Little Johnny observed in horror,

As the eyes which always looked so sweet,

Became unfathomable wells of tears,

And the picture of triumphant grief

Little Johnny’s mother pulled him close,

And, tucking away loose strand of his hair,

Leaned yet closer to him and whispered,

“Your father won’t be coming back here.”