This morning

I heard the black news
of a killer crash
on the main line,

I saw a sweet car
garrotted under the strangling wheels
of a red–respecting juggernaut,

I met discordant blue
flashing alarm
on someone
knocked down
and still.

What should I believe?

That Lady Fate is having
A Bad Hair Day,
so people have to hurt?

Chance is pure,
a scornful God,
the God of science,
the only God to give
predictable result.

This poem was published in Never Bury Poetry 54.