2nd Place

This morning could have been a dress rehearsal
for how it all goes down someday.
One moment, you’re lazily guiding soap suds
toward the drain with a casual foot,
the next it’s a somersault of tub, curtain, ceiling,
tub, curtain, floor, your two wet handprints
pressed into the tan bath mat like a mischievous
boy’s prank before the cement has set.
With no time to be frightened much,
and zero chance for reflection, it could
have been worse, with death truly having the last
laugh, as it should be for someone who’s led an
absurd life of scribbling down words compulsively.
If this was actually it, dying among the drips and
drops, you’d have out-assisted the assisted living
facility, and with a facility for comedy, a measure
of freedom maybe, in a strange life of trying
to make slippery words stay put.