Science  Write  Now

How tastelessly undignified,

the toff who has his top-hat off,

from accidental elbowing 

geraniums in crockery

by Madams on the balcony— 

who only meant a mercenary wave.

Now,

lying in the evening damp,

is hatless corpse, and mindless plant;

statistically significant,

still, 

randomly selected for the grave.

Also freakishly disastered,

the cadaver newly plastered

on the median.

Smeared beside smashed handlebars

tangled tubes and body parts

the body parts where boulder sits,

betwixt the shoulders of the cyclist

selected for this chance event

by fissures in surrounding cliffs,

gravity,

and divine coin flips.

Pricy helmet still affixed to lifeless head.

So when it comes,

and it will come,

the heavy object from above

as just some random matter

coming, seeming

out of nowhere.

An asteroid or

falling star or

meteor, a rock

is sure 

to hit us from the sky.

It is no matter what

the mile-measured fireball 

is called,

when aimed at us 

at near 800 miles 

every second.

We might as well 

just call it just,

another short straw drawn by us

without a Godly reason why…

…or crushed silk hat for irony 

in the gutter, lying by.

Feature image via Te Papa Collections