Precious Moments

I stepped on a rat
running late to an appointment
with a doctor of the lungs
to investigate a wheeze he said
I didn’t have.

I don’t know what happened.
The x-ray said
everything’s fine and
tests I struggled through say so too so
how did you end up in
a public funds hospital
manic reading
George Saunders
(the story about incarcerated drug testers
spun against the wall
of their morality;
the protagonist
offs himself—
you know the one)
red-faced, cracking in half
thinking your worry
can kill you
perhaps
you haven’t looked around.

The time the squirrel fell from the tree
it was the same—
Independence Day—
what a scene
laughsobbing, wailshrieking
loud, too loud
for the backyard of the bar
how long before your friend’s voice dipping
like, “remember, volume”
went inside to tell someone, “hey,
sorry to bother you, but
death is here, I’ll show you”
and the bag and broom came floating through
across the ruddy tile on bartender’s legs looking for
one more dead thing.

Here, an outstretched lump with outstretched hands
still trying to run but
dead among hard French fry ends
went
into the limp black bag
holding something
slight and sharp and
heavy for a squirrel.