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The Odds



I wondered from a young age
at the odds of reaching the end of my life
without having to kill someone.
I had (and have) no desire to do so,
but the world seemed (seems) a place
that might arrange it, might compel it.

I've been at it a while now, life,
and so far, so good, my hands remain clean,
and I wonder if I've just been lucky,
if the hypothetical potential victim has just been lucky,
or whether my initial assessment of the world
was false, or skewed by missing or incomplete data.

When chance shifts and our lives reshape to fit,
how marked are we by what might have been but isn't?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.