Wednesday, October 5, 2016

  Man goes 118mph in a 50mph zone

Things are often better than what the newspaper says about them;
There was a moment when he felt invincible, almost invisible
As he passed the first cop car who timed him at 118 mph and
Decided to give chase, to fill the night with the shriek of siren;
They never understand that nights like these need flight, even
On these backroads, going nowhere, a few beers deep into
The darkness of late night, it just seems right, even the early
Morning eggs him on; cars are built for this, engines need to roar,
Need to feel their destiny fulfilled, the manufacturers’ suggested
Retail speed, even if only for a short time, times just like this one
Wandering these anonymous roads, the blank stare of dark houses,
Of endless trees, like ghosts speeding by on either side, begging
Him to race, to save face, to make his mark, even alone it seems
Monumental, and now it becomes public, 118 in a 50 zone in print,
But they missed it all, the feel of it, the wind, the wheels, the curves
The straightaways, the darkness all around him -- finally taking notice.
                                                                                   J.K. Durick

                 Crime Scene
That friendly street, that comfy corner
Get generalized now, like the ones we see
So often on the news, yellow police tape
Stretched, fluttering, various lights flashing,
Blue and red, police huddled in small groups
Discussing details of what happened and
What will happen now, now that the body
Is gone, except for the marks they drew
On the sidewalk, victims leave shadows
Of themselves, like this briefest reminder,
And so the hours of talking and measuring
Begin, details become important we know
From our ample training on endless TV
Police shows, but this time it’s nearby, on
That street we hung out on so often as kids,
On a corner we waited for friends on, and
Never guessed the violence in it all, the danger
Living around us; late night, early morning
Two people arguing, till one shot the other
And now that friendly street and that comfy
Corner are theirs, forever haunted, forever
A crime scene, yellow tape fluttering, lights
Flashing, groups gathering, measuring it all,
Like we see every night on the national news.
                                                  J.K. Durick

                         After that, What?
“What if?” “And so?” “And then what?” Partial questions,
Like these, lay claim to us, define us, and set so much of
What we do in motion, we imagine outcomes, sequences
And consequences, one thing leading to another and then
Another, dominoes falling, tap one and watch them all fall;
They bring on a kind of preemptive guilt to stop us in
Our literal and/or figurative tracks and plan ahead
Foresee the aftermath of this or that; we know how the
Future works, experienced it in our past: the phone call
We made or didn’t make, the truth we admitted when
Remaining silent would have worked better, the turn
We took with that bridge to cross, the storm warnings
We didn’t heed, didn’t ask “what if?” as we set out and
Learned the answer to “and so?” and “and then what?”
                                                              J.K. Durick

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...