Who Knows When!

I started writing poems

When my dad told me

His friend at work

Retired, had a party

Announced he was now

Finally writing his book of poems

What he long awaited to dedicate his time, to

And then–

Out of nowhere

He was murdered

By a guy he had hired

To maintain one of his properties

That he rented out as a landlord.

He was a first generation Indian immigrant

A brilliant engineer who my hard-nosed dad respected

And he was murdered

By the white guy who mowed the lawn.

I realized then–

If you want to write poems

Fucking write them

Before you retire, cuz who knows

When some white supremacist

Will decide to kill you

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