Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Jan 17 2008


He was in the wrong place at the wrong time
walking after dark,
when a taxi jumped the curb
or guns went-off
or a piano slipped its cable.
If his back was turned
his final thoughts were likely the same as ours
— a warm body in a waiting bed,
tomorrow’s breakfast,
work, again.

But if he saw it coming
I suspect he might be dead calm;
disbelieving,
watching from a distance,
a man’s arrogant invincibility
to the very end.

They say he died instantly,
not long enough to feel the pain.
But I think this is more reassurance
than certainty,
because how could they know better than me?
Of course, if he lives, he will surely suffer,
his body broken
his psyche inconsolable.
And if he dies, his survivors will suffer instead
— every lover, eventually lost,
every gain in life its cost;
and yet
we keep wanting more of it.

Even without falling grand pianos,
or icicles, poised above the pathway like daggers,
there is no right place or time.
At 32 feet per second per second,
always caught by surprise.