The architect architected his own demise,
gradually over the liquor-brined years and then in milliseconds.

The architect drank, hunched over every last bar,
as a release, as a habit, as a stumblebum crutch, as a gaping maw.

He staggered one night out of the dark tavern into the SUV
that he click-clicked open without a thought despite past offenses.

He never saw the couple on a motorcycle out on date night,
or so he whimpered to the officer, muttering “my life is over."

Faced with 28 felony charges, he was right in a way.
And yet his life wasn’t over like theirs, no, it wasn’t over like theirs.