Saturday, April 9, 2016

Onion Snow

It's April and the woman you were taking care of
died this morning. Mary, 89 and slowly diminishing,
had fallen last week when she’d snuck out of bed
to brush her teeth. Now, a week later,
she’s gone. You watched her leave.
Her eyes opened wide and her cataracts cleared
and her eyes shone radiant hazel
for ten full minutes before once again clouding over
and then she died. It snowed
as you drove home, tiny flakes gently frosting
the branches, muffling the noise of the world.
It was in the sixties here, cherry blossoms
in full bloom, and I went out and had
a delicious sandwich, dripping vinegar,
and when I left the deli a car sped past,
followed by two police cruisers.
At first I thought the driver was just looking for a place
to pull over, but then he accelerated
to try to outrun the cops. They stopped him
two blocks later. I didn’t see what happened
after that. I wonder what was thinking
as he chose to hit the gas instead of the brakes
on this gorgeous sunny day, in this place 
where it rarely snows, especially not in April.

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