Poetry reading at Iron John’s Brewing Company, Tucson, AZ. Click on Departing to view the video.
The financial planner points to a chart, says he expects me to die in 2040. I don’t hold it against him— he’s supposed to be actuarial. Though I do take offense when he denotes me as a period on a downward sloping graph. I let him know the inky dot doesn’t look anything like me— I’m taller and in much better shape. As he abruptly closes his binder, I take the opportunity to tell him when he should plan to leave.
If it had been raining that Friday and a glass bubble covered the convertible or if Air Force One was delayed by threatening weather. If the school book depository near Dealey Plaza had been so tightly secured no interloper could enter no stairwell led upstairs no window could be opened.
But how far back from the grassy knoll could onlookers hope to see him? As a young man with Addison’s disease? When his PT boat was sunk in the Pacific? If only the motorcade had driven faster past that sixth floor perch. Maybe then the roses on her lap would have been brighter than the blood staining her dress.
(first published in Clerk of the Dead by Main Street Rag Publishing, 2020)