We all have our deaths,
stark desert for some,
plush jungle for others.
Maybe acres of sand
or a puddle of green-brown water.
Quiet and solitary in the bed,
goes one,
while loud and in a crowd
falls another and another.
We carry deaths around like fob watches
even though they only keep the one time.
Heart attack, smiles a farmer in a field.
Cancer, quotes a businessman
from an invisible memo.
Car crashes, for instance, happen
long before the impact.
A twisted hunk of metal with a man
crunched inside buys a round of drinks
for his pals.
The collision between a Buick and
a telephone pole plays pool with
whoever dares take him on.
In the corner, sits a disease
that a man will
learn to pronounce and spell.
Just in time too.