At freak-out point

// E. Kristin Anderson

Once when I was pretty young,         pretty shook up,
I thought        dead could lead the singing.

It’s grotesque             playing the same scene twice,
trying not to throw up —             A nice gesture.

I wish I had a spade.         That’s the real reason.
How long has it been since             It’s all right, sweetie?

That soft little voice             couldn’t handle            the key in the ignition;
you’re going to be           right here in            the dirty work

You saw         a few nice things           getting weird on us,
and all that’s left is          our trespasses.

This is sort of a funeral           playing at being Ophelia,
the last chapter.              That should do it.

Here’s a picture:          the tower of strength among us
breaking ground there          (lower in the body).

I wish it was last Saturday.           Bound to
digging a hole in the ground             eyes wide open.

We haven’t touched much.           Simmered down,
what do I say?        It’s all right, baby.

This is a found poem using speech and quotations from the following source:
Duncan, Lois. Killing Mr. Griffin. Revised Paperback ed.
New York: Little, Brown, 2010. 150-157, 158-162. Print.