There Can Be No Final Answer to the Question of Life’s Meaning
A black rain fell over the city
slowing traffic north to south.
Two birds flew in tandem then diverged.
One circled back.
A spindly yellow-green grasshopper leapt
from this long, flat blade of grass to that.
Four clouds came together, blew apart,
then came together again to cover the sun.
Six thousand gnats swarmed
a rusted, green dumpster behind a fancy restaurant.
Things happen that way.
A cargo van with no windows nearly
runs over a jogger listening to Enya.
Three people from Accounting reach for
the last donut at the exact same time.
A manager reviews her company’s PTO policy.
She feels ill in her stomach.
Five phones call five different cities
to deliver the same message.
Someone receives word via Facebook that their sister-in-law
has fallen down. She could be out a few days.
Another someone’s eyes grow heavy at their computer
so they put their head down to rest.
Things happen this way.