for Judy Downer
Some deaths are sudden; others come at you
Like a slow-motion fastball—where you see
It barely moving, like a snail through glue,
And every stitch has perfect clarity.
And as that ball gets closer, bit by bit,
You steel your nerves and feel your muscles numbing,
And gamely brace yourself against the hit,
And think: “I’ve got this!” ‘cause you see it coming.
Then it arrives and BAM! You’re on your ass
And pain—pain everywhere—is all you know
Because the impact shatters you like glass.
No matter if it’s sudden or it’s slow,
It drops you like a bullet from a gun:
It’s still a fastball, and it hits like one.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells