Chance

It was her!

She killed a man,

she aimed for his heart

but instead the bullet broke through his head.

Tragedy

oh no, tragedy.

I cry and I weep,

as I chase after her,

but I find peace in my sleep.

The bullet broke through his skull

and through the window made of glass.

His blood stained the tile floor

of the store

of which I mop and which I sweep.

I couldn't decide which to do first.

How do you properly dispose

of a man’s last drops of life?

Deciding to keep the dustpan clean,

I took a mop to the rich red blood,

the soapy water washed through it

and made it a salmon pink.  

Glass clung to the mop and I gagged.

Sick warm blood that would never come off the pink tiles,

and the crunch of breaking glass under my shoes.

I pulled my eyes away from the impressive crimson,

and found myself staring

at the cracks that jut through the broken glass window.

Clean sharp lines and soft curvatures,

carving masterpieces that melt like snowflakes

on the tip of my tongue

as the smell rises.

He was reaching for milk,

one gallon of organic, whole milk.

When he slipped,

slipped on nothing.

She was crying heavy tears,

hard, hot, and acid tears.

When she pulled the trigger,

pulled the trigger to kill a man,

a man buying milk.

Chance would have it,

that I am here to clean up blood.

The blood that just won't come out of my floor.

I am here to smell it, to see it, to understand it.

The glass designs that he died for,

ballerinas skated upon the surface

and it had to have been more than physics,

to make me cry at its beauty.

The beauty of chance.

Of living life,

to forget you’re living life,

the beauty and irony of that.

Something like awe,

as his death was beautiful

and as his death was disgusting.

He’d left behind

millions of beautiful accidents

and gorgeous ‘mistakes’

that the universe claimed and made for all the better,

even when all we could do was cry.

Author's Note

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