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Your peaceful death is rare.
I come home to the dog and lie on the floor, sink into his fur and drool.
Warmth.

“What could have been” repeats.
Heartbreak becomes routine, another memory filed under work.

I am myself, but also just another passerby bringing forth news of the end.

Sometimes you’re on the phone a state away. Sometimes you’re already in the house, on the couch, holding their mother as she folds into herself on the floor; or you’re the first one out the door, asking if we can help you help yourself, the one who called.

I’m in the parking lot, talking with coworkers about “infinities.”
I showed up tired.
You woke up expecting normal.

False angel. Angel of death.
Inside me, just a child trying to maintain my innocence.

Will your death be peaceful today?

Trout, hidden in the river somewhere.
Boy on the asphalt, missing the cedars somewhere.
Couch with blood on the floor, unknown problem man down somewhere.

Dead in the bathroom, back room, casino.
Lost at first sight, no chance, as I cut their pants.
Arguing chaos quickly controlled, bystanders watching from within the bathroom stalls.
A spectacle, zoo, on stage once again.
Once again, another, under 30, couldn’t save them.