by Michael Brett
"To sit down next to a suicide bomber on the tube,|
Or a bus? You'd have to be incredibly unlucky,"
Said my friend, an actuary, in the pub.
Watching his beer's bubbles, he said
"You have to float on statistics, like Noah.
-The safest cars in Britain are yellow. Why?
Nobody knows." I bob on his words, yet
Crossing the city I size up other passengers.
Have they a holdall? Or a bag? A nervous bearded man
Saying his rosary has me leave the train
And catch the one behind.
The tiny bomb fragment in my head floats about, too.
It's moved from the top of my head and is sailing to my ear.
(It's half-way there now.) Sometimes it floats on dreams
Of alarm bells, smoke, the covenanted rainbow in the sky
Of shop plate glass, twisting, dancing
With no dove in sight anywhere.
Strangest of all, when I thought I was going to die
I wasn't scared. I was filled with a small sadness
Like closing a beloved book half-finished,
Of never knowing what the end would be.
Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett
Published: 12/10/09 · Author's Page · Next Poem