There’s No Editing Time

fatal_crash_photo_f_837334a (1)

Stale as a mind on lithium.
And doesn’t America’s reflection
Scamper by in the car windows?
So bruising are unheard words.
That I translate mute language as ancient wisdom
Reliable like Confucius’ take on

“What creates wealth
Creates jobs!”

But isn’t all time borrowed?
Thus when my hands grasp
Washington’s whipping hand
And the fingers Stalin held his cock with
It becomes apparent
We’re as old as memories allow.

Then it’s possible the instructions for morality
Have been forgotten,
Ought to be.

I blink this thought until it focuses
On the vagabond standing in the median
With a cardboard sign, decorated in a request
For monetary gain.

A Prius passes him creating a gust
That takes the baseball cap
Off his head.
It floats like trash onto the ground.
I hold my breath and watch him bend
To pick it up, while a car almost clips his skull.

I wonder for a moment how I would feel
Watching a man die by an impromptu force.

Could the Prius driver be charged with homicide?
Or does morality forgive accidents?

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