Down my street
a ****** suicide
and somehow it feels
like things
change.

The septuagenarian offed his wife,
then bit the bullet
and took the trip to join
her,
offering no
explanation.

Some will say in hushed voices over
stale pastries and plastic coffee cups
"well, he must have had his reasons...";
disease or no desire
or undercooked meals or
overcooked emotions
or that one night
in 1972:
masters of speculation,
conveniently circumventing the fact
that no reasons are ever
required
until you are dragged
into it.

These things happen,
have happened,
will keep happening,
regardless,
only now they are here
and so are you,
staring uncomfortable at known
but forgotten
realities,
like crossing your ex
on the way to the supermarket.

There is, quite simply,
too much -
we have to reduce to understand,
so we understand but a reduction,
puzzling the obvious
(the universe is nothing
but an infinite
Rube Goldberg machine
with no purpose at all)
when the cogs are revealed
closer to us
than anticipated.

There should be no space
for surprise:
of course we all would wind
up doing
it
to each other
and to
ourselves,
given enough time
all probabilities are eventually
drawn to
one.

The only unexpected is
it being unexpected,
just like and end you didn't see
coming.