Be not so sure of surety,

of a reminder for tomorrow

on your desk.

For always,

later or sooner,

is the consecutive skipped

arrhythmia of a heart

failing since birth,

is that brief, inattentive crossing

of that street where,

unconcerned,

we miss the blaring of the horn,

the screeching of breaks

on the wet pavement,

sounding for all the world

like the shriek

of the hungry, hunting hawk.

And then,

nothing.

Or angels

with white wings

and trumpets,

(if you’ve made time for belief…)

if…

but always is the circling Kestrel,

watching.