You have been hit by a bus again.
I am poised to call, but if you are alive
and upright - if I am wrong, then
you're still riding, likely mid-weave
between cars and will not answer.
I tell myself that every time I've
suspected you of death - be it pouncer
snatching you from the saddle,
gory run-in with city panther,
pothole-to-bullbar or forensic riddle -
I have been wrong, and wasted the flint
that sparks at my sternum like a medal.
I am worried that it will all be spent
when, years from now, you finally croak.
I won't be much more than a skinbone tent,
I think, as your key scrapes the front door lock.
