You are driving to a yard sale
on a blooming-in-June perfect day,
when a drunk driver swerves,
opening your gateway to the Bardo.

You’re singing “Lost In The Stars,”
in the shower at the top of your lungs,
when you notice a river of blood,
a private Mississippi,
gushing out of your busted nose.

You wake up one morning
ready to seize the day.
Shaving, you cringe as you see
a golf-ball size lump
on the side of your neck.

There’s no way to predict
an exploding aneurism
or a thrombotic clot
that slams the door shut
to a heart that gasps for air.

You never plan on an accident,
when you stumble and fall in the dark,
or crash while yapping on a cell phone
in the back of a sea of snarling cars.

This is the way life works
when God has gone asleep.