I realize that my life could end
with the bite of a single bullet straight down the third eye of my forehead
a red-annulated hole boring into the smiling center of my mind
as I fall to my knees in a dusty road
on a hot summer day in a town where no one is born.
Where the bright searing yellow of the sun
wipes clean all memory,
and the lime-washed white houses shimmer in the heat of mid-afternoon,
slipping into dreaming mirages of their own.
Insubstantial can be this dance into darkness
this silly performance on the final stage,
a blunt point on an otherwise fine life.
It has happened before to mothers, fathers, daughters and sons,
and I too can be swept up in chance's sense of humour.
If only I can learn to laugh wryly at the ridiculousness of that moment,
I can live with that possibility.