There’s a chance that I will die today,
get mowed down by a semi, squished flat,
and there’s a chance that I will survive.
There’s a chance that they’ll have to amputate
one of my legs
but there’s also a chance it’ll be two.
And they should have to put in
a ramp into the library, for my wheelchair,
and who would love me then?
But there’s a chance they’d take me as
some sort of inspiration, that I kept writing,
and would publish my poetry at last.
There’s a chance that I would die fulfilled-
published, accepted, old, legless and happy-
and there’s a chance that I will die today.
There is also a chance for remarkable things,
beyond recognition, yet.
And why should I not believe that?
It is said that dreams are uncertain,
not to be held in a fist,
but what is there to hang my coat on in this world
if not the infinite chances, unknown?