So many ways without warning
to die too young:
Stabbed while at work by a soul gone berserk.
Stoned as you roam in your disputed home.
Felled right there in bed, burst vein in your head.
Shot from the dark while cavorting in the park.
Blown up in the street by a fanatic’s strapped on heat.
The news of each one a piercing reminder
it could have been you
or worse, those you love.
To counter, you squeeze them,
your blessings, your joys,
smell every rose you can snatch into view.
What else can one do?
