the day you were born, no one died,

by normal

the telephone book of history opened &
closed &


you were one up
in a world of diminishing returns
& life steamed from the sweat
on your skin.

i took my shift on the
hospital ward that night,
where the sounds of the dying
battled for front stage center
with the shrill sounds of the
17 year cicadas

& for 24 hrs black
ceased to be the color
of mourning &

was such a little man
with so much work
left to do.