Brushes with Death

A second more and that new ’53

Cadillac barelling down the road

would have left my seat vacant in

kindergarten class, so close to me

I felt the front bumper brushing

against my mittens and coat sleeve.  

Which brings to mind my youngest

brother who, observed leaving a gay

bar in early 80’s Boston, was beaten

up by gay-bashing thugs and avoided

further harm by dashing in front of

a passing bus and getting away. He felt

the bus’s armor brushing his loosened

jacket as he fled to the street in panic.

Two brushes with death: 

The first, a rambunctious kid on a chase,

forgotten next day.

The second, a close call with a passing bus

that saved his skin instead of dealing death.    

Cuts, bruises and scrapes from fists and falls

in the melee healed in weeks, no more signs.

But no mending of the puncture wounds from

plunging ice-pick tongues tipped with hatred’s

poison.  They last so many lifetimes and won’t

let us forget that Evil’s not only in the Bible.