I’m my own murder scene.
One-eyed, bloody-nosed medics,
circle the corpse that is me,
even though I’m smiling and
wink and sing out, how’s it
going boys? But no one answers
including those thick-waisted
trees bending in the screaming
hurricane, nor a gang of cops
scurrying in, smoking, spitting,
grabbing crotches as if there’s
meaning or magic there
instead of mundane menace.
Blue fire at the horizon flares
brighter, as I’m tossed on
the gurney and rolled into the hearse
they claim is an ambulance.
It all makes sense to me, though,
I tell the heavily-armed woman
at checkout of my favorite grocery,
the one selling tins of purified
air guaranteed to extend mortality
by 11% or your money back.
Or more likely your next of kin’s
because you’ll be dead then, but I’m
not, at least, I don’t think I am.