Looking down from the Texas book depository window,
the first thing you realize is,
everything is so close–
my God–it was an easy shot.
The motorcade moving stately and slow
through the oddly intimate space,
like you could reach down and pick it up
and move it someplace else.
The first shot disorients the driver–
he slows down even more,
then the second,
and then the third,
finally he zooms under the overpass.
There is a silvery taste in your mouth
and a ringing in your ears.
Your arms fly up to embrace the
awful change that is coming.
Your vision narrows.
The bleached world begins to tilt.
A magpie in the tree by the road.
A song you heard your mother hum
when she walked you to church.
Soon will come the caisson and the drums.
But right now just the magpie
and the humming.