People Like Us

Things like that don’t happen to people like us.

They happen on the news, or to distant friends of friends we’ve never met.

If life were a book, such things would only be written in someone else’s chapter,

The likes of which one reads only to forget,

As just another fantasy with no happy ever after.

But things like that don’t happen to people like us.

In those chapters, riddled with graphic pictures

Of morphed metal stained red and the smoky haze of car fumes, would be the end

Of a loved one’s story,

A mother, a son, a friend.

But things like that don’t happen to people like us.

Our homes remain intact and safe throughout the ages,

Family in all,

And with them, we write new stories upon blank pages

Which shall never be ripped from our books when we answer a call.

Because things like that don’t happen to people like us.

We don’t lose focus when we try

To catch a glimpse of our phone,

Turn a corner too swiftly when the clouds cry,

Or speed through the streets to get us home.

Because things like that don’t happen to people like us.

Perhaps we would have made it home,

If only someone knew,

That things like that don’t happen to people like us,

Until they do.