Do you recall any of those salty throated
men and women, boys and girls,
each in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Do you recall Maggie Apple lying in the street
with her eggshell nails
and her skinny legs with those calves that looked
as if they’d been attached to her bones
as an afterthought,

or old Ronald Wrong
whose house smelled of wine but
looked like a glove full of bees? 
When they banged down his door
and a host of trouble flew out
of its ramshackle fingers
they shot him as if he were
a queen, a danger queen.

As for tonight…
we don’t yet know his name.
We’re hearing the cop thought he saw a gun
in the flash from the CD the boy was holding.
Well, someone will say,
he should never have gone up to the roof
at all.  But the kids use the roof
as a short cut to the next building, we’ll respond.
It was never meant to be a final destination.

When we know his name
we’ll add it to the list we carry
behind our teeth,
behind our eyes.  
Then we’ll say:

walk on eggshells. 
Their ears
are tuned to angry bees
and your missteps
sound like a swarm. 

If wherever you are
when that happens
becomes your final destination,
we’ll be sure to remember your name, too,
you cautionary tale, you fallen apple,
you little bit of gone horribly wrong.