It Was I
…thirteen miners…
…only one survived…
…still clinging to life...
...with a history of violations...
It wasn’t West Virginia.
It was I.
And I’m taking the day off.
I know it won’t rhyme,
But I’ve been pummeled.
Run through the wringer.
It’ll be coffee now,
Black and bitter,
The way I like it.
Later, I’ll have some soup.
Chicken soup.
Chicken soup without the chicken.
Chicken soup without the broth.
I’ll just look at the can.
Art soup.
It wasn’t Warhol.
It was I.
…Sago Mine officials…
…two miles inside…
…280 feet down…
...Wall Street rallied on rumors…
… of sexual improprieties...
...deep discounts expected…
…news and talk all day…
…classical music all night…
But mostly just dead air.
…The president will be speaking later today...
...the leak came from a well-placed source…
It wasn’t his press secretary.
It was I,
…a suicide bomber in...
A place I can’t even pronounce.
Suicide?
In the realm of no-time,
Everything exists simultaneously,
Everywhere, nowhere.
Vast universes containing infinite sparks
Of universal consciousness
Erupting with intelligent randomness.
Everywhere.
Nowhere.
Nothing can be extinguished,
Merely transformed.
…Intifada…
…Gaza…
What does it matter?
It wasn’t Hamas.
It was I.
When Garrison Keillor Recites this poem
On Writer’s Almanac tonight,
He’ll speak different words
And attribute it to another author,
But that’s OK.
It wasn’t NPR.
It was I.
…thirteen miners…
… only one survived…
…still clinging to life...
...with a history of violations…
It wasn’t West Virginia.
It was I.
And I’m taking the day off.
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