I mostly write of real life events, or my interpretation of real life events.

Manzano

If only I had eaten her

fresh eggroll, or asked one more question

about the sago palm in the gallon pot.

Why hadn’t I asked to see the blonde

furniture for sale inside,

or handed her a twenty

instead of exact change

for the box filled with plenty

of things she’d already kissed goodbye?

Anything for a few seconds delay

so fate would have stumbled,

cursed me for tick-tocking

with its clock.

The woman and her four friends

bled across the columns

of Sunday’s paper—

lives ended at an intersection.

What could have been done

to keep her from leaving home,

picking them up precisely when she did, 

hovered in the dead space

between my eyes and the front page.

Fate, that fat fucker, tap-danced on my guilt,

gracefully bowed from the darkness of its heart.