Fate
It's the face in the mirror
milliseconds before your own
suavely bearded, neatly combed.
It's the man that stood
in the rain and dark
moments before the bus cranked up
whisking him away, forever, hinting more than he told;
keen to see more, you move to the pane,
lay your hand on it-
Too late: not Medusa's nor her nemesis', the tense face
hurtling through a funnel of dark-
ness toward the river, but surprisingly in-between.
Escape? When you elude the faintly-tinted shade
clinging stubbornly to your heel,
gone long moments at high noon.
'I will live a hundred years in perfect health and die
painlessly in my sleep. God loves me. Marrying well, making a mint,
I will seem to keep the laws and break many.'
All these things you may say and even believe;
But the mouthed face on the bus laughs and says
'No way, Jose! '
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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