Death surrounds us with blatant arms.
A sanitation worker dies and no one
cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight,

summoning the equally unknown people
to altars of rancor and resignation.
What do they do but recognize a human

in the grip of edgy, illegible lives,
the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes,
cold and incurable as dry, winter snow?

Bleak living room. Soon the owner won't live
in the area for living, the area's dark aria -
a moment of meth, mirth and minions.

Take that bystreet to oblivion,
to namelessness, to fingers on hardware,
to the antinome of more pure breaths.

By his own hand - a homemade gun, a killing
of the flesh and the direction of the flesh -
alone, in the basement of barren wind

Lamont Palmer

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/suicide-in-an-old-house/