Walking Raven

Oh, My Brother

Oh, my Brother, my Brother.
Dead.
Dead?
My Brother? Dead?
MY BROTHER IS DEAD?

I wish I could believe
My death would present an opportunity
For God to tell me Why.
A Why might help —
Not really.

I see him
Sauntering down the street
Dressed in his favorite best
Internally warmed by his last martini
Against the autumn chill.

Moving toward the fateful encounter
“Fateful” because a minute,
Perhaps even seconds,
On either side
And he walks on, undead.

Instead, he slaps at the vehicle
Driven by a Black, Swedish Rapper.
You read right,
A Black Swedish Rapper,
Driving

Not a beloved ’65 fastback ‘stang,
Or a ’67 Cobra,
Or a ’70 Chevelle,
But a rental
A rental.

And so they watched
As the Black Swedish Rapper
Emerged from the rental and
Killed the Music.
The rest is silence.

– cko, August 30, 2011