OUT OF THE ARBITRARY

Another news broadcast,                                            
another night                                                    
when I am not the one
found murdered in the park
by joggers
or crushed to death
by falling girders.

There's an arbitrary God at work.
Or maybe He just has it in
for those out walking after dark
and working on construction sites.

Clearly, if a poet's to die
it must be rope or pills
or cancer devouring body,
one ravaged death poem at a time.
No crackup on the turnpike.
No raging house fire. No tornado.

God says everyone gets what they deserve.
But a poet must always see it coming.

by John Grey

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