National Poetry Month, Day 10

The skydiver pulled out his disposable camera

(you remember those)

and was just about to snap a shot when a bird collided into him
and the 24-shot little instamatic camera fell from the heavens

(he would have forgotten to develop the pics anyway).


One time my then-girlfriend and I were in Prescott
arguing with the windows open in my beater Honda
trying to find the freeway when we heard a ringing sound

and she flinched
and either yelled or half-wimpered,
and reached up and pulled
a sliver of metal out of her hair.


Do you think that skydiver – like ten years later –

thinks about that camera at all,

or does he spend the time
wondering about
that poor bird’s family?

Another time we were at Disneyland
sharing a table with some family from Minnesota

(I’ve tried writing about this before,
but it hasn’t worked until now)

and they were having a terrible time,
or at least the dad was. And as he recited to us
his laundry list of this abomination’s offenses

(i.e. – the parking, the prices, the lines,
the walking, the heat, the noise, the whatever.
Thank god he didn’t bad mouth the churros,
because I would have had to slap him.)

and just as he’d reached a perfect froth
a bird zipped by and shit on his bald, shiny head.
To this day, I’ve never seen a man look so defeated.

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