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Everything that can happen does. 
She leaves work early 
as a crackhead jumps off a bus. 
A drunk runs a red light, barely. 

She leaves work early. 
Her car doors did not lock. 
A drunk runs a red light, barely. 
Onto her backseat the crackhead hops. 

Her car doors did not lock. 
Just her luck she will be soon dead. 
Onto her backseat the crackhead hops. 
“Drive, baby, drive,” he says. 

Just her luck she will be soon dead, 
head severed, arms intact. 
“Yes, mister, yes,” she says 
to the crackhead in back. 

Head severed, arms intact, 
her belted body bruised and blue. 
To the crackhead in back, 
just a skirt in a pinstripe suit. 

Her belted body bruised and blue. 
No one looked both ways, 
neither he nor the skirt in a pinstripe suit, 
nor the drunk speeding their way. 

No one looked both ways. 
If only he or she had been a tad late, 
or the drunk speeding their way. 
Any little thing could have voided their fate. 

If only he or she had been a tad late 
as a crackhead jumps off a bus. 
Any little thing could have voided their fate. 
Everything that can happen does.

First published in Every Day Poets (2012) and republished in Intersections: Poetry with Mathematics (2013)