Everything Is Fine (12/19/1977)

If I had died
younger — say, in 1977
as I once thought I would;

on the 19th of December
as I once was sure I would;
at 7:19 in the evening

as a hard, solid dream at 13
convinced me I would,
then all this that has happened since

would not have been, at least not for me,
and maybe not for anyone else
either. Maybe if that premonition 

which haunted my teenage years
had been correct and unassailable in its truth
(even if no one had ever known of it

but me) then perhaps this deadly current world
and all its mad brinksmanship would have been
avoided — not because I was or am

central to the universe’s design
but because I hope this is even now
another figment of a fevered imagination,

and when I pass no one else but me
will ever have in fact been hurt
by the horror I see around me now.

I do not recall waking up on the morning
of December 20, 1977. I would have been
freshly home from college and likely in shock

that I’d woken up at all. I’ve barely slept
since then: that much I do know. Every day
has been a sad mix of betrayal and resignation

to daylight. I distrust it, I should not 
be seeing it; perhaps I am not seeing it
but am only looking back on it

from the next life, the next world, 
or maybe I’m still having
the same damn death dream

and in the true world of the living
this is fine. Somewhere there
on a perfect winter day

they’ve mourned me enough
to have moved on by now,
to barely recall me and thus,

everything is fine.