Ten Minute Coincidence

When you catch the black-eyed man’s black eyes on the station platform

and don’t think anything of it, because his eyes are only two in many 

millions, maybe, or a thousand you’ve seen that day, only

a little bit darker

and you don’t think anything of it,

that’s your prerogative. I,

for one, 

wouldn’t blame you, 

because who, except for protagonists in

bad art noir films, 

really thinks about the pair of browner-than-brown eyes on the subway

when they catch the early train

to be fair,

you were probably thinking about the split in your chipped nail 

that caught in the shower while you were washing your hair

or the text your best friend or your boyfriend sent

that you missed at midnight because your hands were 

slithering sultry down the band of your pajama pants.

And to be fair,

you probably don’t recognize him

when you stop for the (nonfat skim) latte

you get every morning from a barista named

Macy or Jamal or Amalie or River

with the tied back white/black/blue/green dreads

so there’s no reason

for you to see him when he steps by your secretary desk

and asks to see the boss.

Slap the keyboard a couple times—

Do you have an appointment, you say, glossed lips splitting

slithering, sultry,

accidental. did you have a meeting planned

If he says yes, or no, it doesn’t matter,

by now those eyes are blacker than black,

by now those eyes are sicker than sick

and it’s no coincidence he was 

on your morning train

or in your coffee shop

or that his name was spelled into the foam of your

(nonfat skim) latte

and you’re sliding your hand 

slithering sultry down the band of your

gray librarian work skirt

when the shots go off in the room behind you

when the screams go off in the room behind you

when the fear fires off in the room behind you

To be fair

when you woke up this morning

you did not believe in coincidence

except for protagonists 

in bad romantic comedies

and you certainly

did not believe in coincidence like this

where you slide

slithering, sultry

beneath your desk.

Slippery, bloody,

fingers on the keypad of your mobile.

This poem is about: 
Our world


Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression. Always let poetry fill your life. Keep expressing your heart.  

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