Two caught on film who hurtle
 from the eighty-second floor,
 choosing between a fireball
 and to jump holding hands,

 aren't us. I wake beside you,
 stretch, scratch, taste the air,
 the incredible joy of coffee
 and the morning light.

 Alive we open eyelids
 on our pitiful share of time,
 we bubbles rising and bursting
 in a boiling pot.

Guest poem sent in by a contributor who wishes to remain anonymous

Kennedy’s poem is featured in a volume, “Good Poems for Hard Times” selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor. Without being trite, dramatic, verbose or clever, the twelve lines (and especially the “aren’t us” capture the essence of being spared, and the thoughts that spin through the mind each time another image of disaster is broadcast on a billion TV screens: What did they feel? It wasn’t me! What would I have felt? Why am I still here? More coffee?

Links

Academy of American Poets page on X. J. Kennedy:
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/634

Wikipedia entry:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X._J._Kennedy