And Sam said “Lady, you shot me” and
he fell back and hasty he bled to death,
still in his 30s. Soon 70, I walk my way
slow and oldish as life and people have
hurt me hard but haven’t killed me, yet.
Now another spring comes dirty melting.
Yesterday the sidewalks were nicely dry
and clean. At the same parking lot a wind
blew oak leaves in hectic rustling circles.
The leaves whispered hoarse and excited
in their last dance. Today they are soaked
and silenced, raked into piles and cleaned
away like dirt with gravel and sand.
I want to hold every moment in my tenderly
cupped hands but constant pains and saved
sorrows distracts me and I lose my sight and
forget. But I still remember how Sam shouted
“Lady you shot me” shamefully bleed to death.