by Matthew Murrey
Halfway there, curtains
of sudden rain came down.
Fifty-six and I still ride
my bicycle to work,
so my pants got soaked.
I was already worried,
distracted: you rushing off
to the vet with our cat—
something was wrong.
And then the downpour.
In my rush to not run late,
to not let rain ruin my shoes,
I missed a van’s turn signal
and nearly got clipped, almost
slammed into it, but managed
instead to skid and fall, slid
inches from its wheel.
I squeaked by, nothing
but a wet wreck, nothing
worse than a scraped knee,
so why gloom and fret
afterward all morning among
the computers and books?
Why wasn’t I happy
at giving death the slip
again and coming up nothing
but rattled and damp like a stray
shaking it off under a porch
or a dazed newborn squinting
against the light and about to cry?
::
Matthew Murrey is the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019) and the forthcoming collection, Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026). He has recently had poems in One, Anthropocene, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for more than 20 years. He lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. His website is at https://www.matthewmurrey.net/
Image: Anandu Vinod
ID: black and gray storm clouds.
Psaltery & Lyre 