Reflections on Chance

In a flat utterance, the doctor said,
“If he fell differently, he might be dead.”
Technicians zigzagged in a maze of halls
Like raindrops sliding down a windowpane,
Finding new life somewhere, answering calls
For medicine elsewhere. To think I’d gain

Appreciation for my father’s life
Having been spared; instead, as if a knife
Hung from the ceiling over me, the thought
Of others’ lives swiftly flickering out
Without a cause, as a flame burning hot
Turns into smoke, now summons every doubt

That virtue saved my father, or that he
Was cared for by some high divinity.
These specious things we think provide relief,
If transiently, from the brutal weight
Too big to bear: across all things, the chief
Driver of skirting death is never fate,

But chance, distributed unevenly
Like food or clothes, riches or poverty,
But sharp and clear on such days as today.
I thank the staff. In silence, Dad and I
Walk to the lot, and as we drive away,
Others pull in, some on their way to die.

John Masella


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  John Masella  would be pleased to hear them