The doctor who brought me into the world
could be suffering dementia,
in a grey forgotten place somewhere.
The teddy bear
which held me through infant night terrors
is probably rotting in a dump, somewhere, abondoned.
For all I know
The house I grew up in.
With the ivy covered walls.
My second grade teacher
The one who really believed in me.
Very well might be
holding a bottle and wondering
what happened to her life.
My best friend in middle school
died last year.
of the first girl I ever kissed.
They were so smooth back then:
Now she might be sitting in a room
staring at a wall
the smile on the kid
who I sold my first car ever to.
It’s entirely possible
that battered Civic
ended up a smoldering wreck tortured out it’s True Shape.
The first job I ever had
was for a place that went out of business.
The owners dreamed died with that place.
One of the first students I ever taught.
Died in Iraq.
Moments after I smiled at the check out girl this morning
She might have felt dry mouth, and pain in her arm.
A few minutes after you hear my words
maybe the bottom will fall out of your everything.
could have blinked out of existence
five and a half minutes ago.
We wouldn’t know.
For another thirty seconds.