I’m going to be killed by a driver
speeding around me
while I’m on my bike
because inconvenience isn’t in an American’s vocabulary
I’m going to be killed by a driver
who doesn’t see me
until it’s too late
and he’s going too fast to stop
before my murder
I’m going to be killed by a driver
for sport
my dead body his trophy
his busted grill the battle scars that prove he’s a man
I’m going to be killed by a driver
in a truck too big for our city
but never outlawed
because our politicians swear freedom
means the right to kill
I’m going to be killed by a driver
and when I am
read this poem
and know that I am not special
I cannot see the future
I simply know what we all do
that drivers do not see our lives as important
and car manufacturers do not care for our bodies
so death is as likely as it is not
crushed beneath a three ton killing machine
I’m going to be killed by a driver
and when I am
do not speak of me
in saintly epithets and paradigms
instead I beg you
to not allow me to be
just another number
but a match that lights the fires of change
and burns down all those
who wish us dead
I’m going to be killed by a driver
in a car made specially for my bones
attracted like magnets to metal
it sucks my soul clean as wasted marrow and ripped flesh
I’m going to be killed by a driver
because this is Philadelphia
and this is America
where these death
were made for you and me
