The van tires chirped as it swerved
swerved away from the looming mass
of the stalled car, lights out, battery long ago drained.
That could have been it. That could have been
the last tight grip on the steering wheel.
In England for the first time I stepped
stepped looking for traffic but not
the right way, you grabbed my shoulder, sharing paniced pain.
That could have been our last touch before
an image of you cradling my head, weeping.
We cannot avoid death and we cannot live
with death. We will someday meet
in a faraway place, a cave, a flat, a canyon
we thought death would overlook;
a racing away plane, a car, a ship, a van
we thought death would not overtake.
Death swerves around us, grabs our shoulders,
chirps and squeezes,
tells us to keep our eyes open,
see the world right there
miss nothing
take in everything
time will come
life til then.
That makes death happy.
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