Not Now

 

When I think

I’m too close

to catastrophe

because I am stunned

numbed or knocked

into the ozone

and a swelling

pressure keeps rising

like flood waters

in my chest

when I don’t know

what to do

or which way to go

in my mind or

even in my house

 

Then I think

now is probably not

the best time

to write . . . despite

that warning

I can’t stop

myself . . . what else

is there to do?

 

Who concluded that

waiting . . . distance

made more sense?

 

Complete sense

it’s been argued

must be determined

by committee

the majority concurring

on reality

today . . . tomorrow

is another story to be

considered in the morning

 

Then death arrives

unexpectedly on time

cloaked alone

and out of sight

a shadow flashing

like an old Kodak

blinding blue

reminding us

to wake up

the fuse is lit

and the bomb’s ticking

 

The Clock

should’ve been

a Hitchcock movie

starring Cary Grant

and Grace Kelly

or Janet Leigh

and Jimmy Stewart

in a body cast

on the stairs

in the tower

blackbirds cawing

her body falling

the squeaky shower

faucet turned off

by a gloved hand

lights out

water trickles down a drain

someone whispers “why?”

 

We’re obsessed

with dying

whether we admit it

or not . . . carrying

bags of bone

dust we keep

burying till we drop

ceremonies . . . more

stories to concoct

 

Still we love

being here

and being with

other doe-eyed

deer in the headlights

enjoying the greenery

the sun and shade

crossing rivers

to rut maybe lick

the air butt and play

twigs snapping

we taste the metallic

gush of fear

 

Click . . . flash

and fade