It’s not the muzzle,
the deep well of the automatic staring,
nor the cold, expressionless face
of the young girl pointing
It’s hardly the high-whining
crotch rocket rider who cut
off the semi-truck sending
it careening into your lane
It isn’t the mother bear charging,
not because you jogged
between her and her cubs,
but because she’s been eating
trash left at the curb,
and you look tasty,
smell salty, pungent,
and are easy prey.
No, and it certainly isn’t that well-prepared
sunny-side-up three eggs, the sausage,
the bacon, the well-buttered toast awaiting
a liberal slathering of marmalade, and not
your fourth mug of coffee, heavily creamed
and sugared, that’s about to swirl out of sight
into a gray-brown nothingness as you slump
It was the many nights you couldn’t sleep.
The nights you listened to your own heart.
And the days you couldn’t set it aside; it gnawed.
It was a tiny breach that couldn’t handle all the pressure.
I just couldn’t resist a prompt like “Bang, you’re dead!” The prompt comes from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. So, here goes.