I thought of the last four minutes of your life
this morning as I rode to work on the usual
decrepit bus, driven by the usual inane driver.
It briefly struck me as we flew past a mother and
her young (albeit aged) daughter, both in black:
the fault in your love was remarkable.
I thought it not in the least bit remarkable
as a pair of teen girls who, for the life
of them could not grasp that the color black
was not as flattering as one might, in usual
context, find it to be. I realized then, and
not too devastatingly so, they short-changed the driver.
I tried not to take in to account the driver
and his vulgar demeanor: instead on how remarkable
it was that he and his keen behind-sight cared not and
wanted not to realize that the counting machine came to life,
whirring and whining and missing its usual
fare, as the girls went to the back of the bus, black
hips swaying as I recalled how the black
arm of death took you from me. The driver
of a golf cart zoomed past us as we walked our usual
route in the park. You maintained how remarkable
it was that those crazy motorists never cared for a life,
even their own, as you took my arm and
lead me away from the paved walk on to a brown and
beaten dust path. It was getting darker, the sky nearly black,
and with a sheer disregard for (like your drivers) my life,
you took now my hand and lead me further from the driver.
I thought briefly the steadiness of your hand remarkable,
but then regarded it as nothing more than the usual––
With a screech of tires, we rounded the usual
corner, past the recently robbed Kwik-e Mart and
a couple of homeless chain smokers: remarkable,
I muttered, thinking of course to their black
lungs and yours. One man raised a finger to the driver
as we passed. The last I’d seen since you lost your life.
The fault in your life, not less than usual,
the driver behind the reckless car, and
no less black and remarkable.
