“Pneumonia”
Regarding “No Change in Inaction”
Some strange, cold man met me the night of ash—
Uncanny—like distance itself, he was.
Umbrella in hand, a wet wad of cash—
He said “do you know my sister?
Because—if you do, I really miss her.”
Now, I didn’t know his sister, of course—
A stranger’s sister’s just as strange as he.
“I’m in a rush, sir, I’ve got to go home—
Out here, rain’ll come again, violently”
“I really miss her, sir, really miss her,” cried he.
He looked up at the sky, then to a drain—
To his shoes, his arms, umbrella.
“I’ll find her sir,” he cried. “In such refrain—
“I brought my umbrella tonight—
In case I find her sir, tonight.”
Even if he didn’t, I’d have places to be.
Even if he didn’t, I’d have people to see.
I had no time for bums like he—
The rain would come for bums like he.
That broken umbrella was destiny.
A brother’s pain couldn’t matter to me—
For I wasn’t his sister.
People must be hurt—
Things must be broken.
But it’s fine, because I don’t know them,
or their sisters.
I don’t know them either.
He could’ve been a killer too.
With how distant he was,
like pneumonia.
