I'm not good with words

I’m not good with words.
One time we saw all those
newspapers piled up,
rubber-banded, so we
thought we’d help dad and
stacked them in the red wagon
and delivered every one, mostly
to the wrong houses.

I’m not good with words.
One day we were cold so
we said let’s build a campfire
like the pioneers did and
we piled up sticks and paper
and some books and lit it,
our bedroom suffering
only minor damage.

I’m not good with words.
He got sick, you know. That’s
not supposed to happen
when you’re young enough
to live forever but it did,
and he kept laughing as he
faded, laughing harder
until he faded, then gone.

I never was good with words.

This poem is submitted for One Shot Wednesday hosted by One Stop Poetry. Too see more submitted poems, please visit the site. The links will be live at 4 p.m. Central time today.

Photograph: Grief at Cemetery by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.