A poem in response to Rebecca Meacham’s prompt #1. Should I left and right justify? Or no?

My father lost his best friend in the move from Coleman to Peshtigo, an upheaval of maybe fifteen miles. Not that he left his friend behind. The friend drowned at the swimming hole where they played hooky. My grandpa became a barber after his doctor advised him to leave construction–too much strain on his heart. Father couldn’t forget the concavity of sound as he dove into the water. They all dove, father, the friend, two buddies. The friend never surfaced. The water was green-black with treachery. Father and the buddies couldn't seem to hold their breath for the panic. Their hands didn't belong to them, fingers wrinkling maladaptively. It was all wrong—the day, the sky, the water slurping at the bank while they waited on the shore for the rescue crew to cast their trolling nets. Grandpa brought more towels than three shivering boys needed. Father shifted from foot to foot, his ink black hair gleaming in the terribleness. The bikes didn't fit in the trunk of grandpa's car. One wheel spun and spun. Barbering was easier on grandpa's clogged arteries, but the burden of standing got to him in the end. Father dreaded the black combs swimming in barbicide.