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coffeeshoppoems
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I Did Not Actually Die
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you rushed to me on the street
and told me you were glad I was alive
me too, I replied
no you said, understanding I am not privy to your private world
I thought you were dead.
dead--one of those thoughts you can't help having sometimes
thinking, then stopping thoughts-funeral bells, the weeping
announcing someone far too young is gone,
dead--no my dear,
my heart never gets a coffeebreak, or a nap
it merely saunters on,
down the blizzard of St. Urbain
sending blood to a sore ankle,
following tyrannical commands
that it should also warm fingers and toes
and not break
or even slow down for a breath.
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