expiration dates

i would have to look at your genetic tree then

ask you to think about where you might like

to work and if you lust after harleys or silent

movie stars and might you commute? perhaps

you are an uber driver from pakistan living

outside or princeton in one of the windsors

driving while already retired smoking french

cigarettes with the window down in early

january and gesticulating after missing

two left turns and drifting on to a faceless

backseat passenger about that last unprojected

market correction that zapped your principal.

and this is the place in thew poem where you

Check your phone three times: 7:08; 7:08; 7:10.

and thumb maybe eight texts: three to roger

at the lighting company you might be starting

and that’s exactly when the cement mixer runs

the classic yellow light and the passenger door

slaps first like a small row boat hitting a

small dock but way too fast and sort of like

bumper cars from behind the one that snaps

your neck and then tea cups flying saucers

suspended downside up and heading toward some

wall of gravity that is really just a roller coaster

house of circus mirrors pivoting on an axis.

rocking back and forth and spinning: stop. 

so yes. and sure, this could happen to you.

and then again, maybe not. and if not. your

gene pool in the clouds above whispers

you will live until 93. or maybe 102. tops.