We smoked better than chimneys- cheeky urban teenagers

roller-coasting our way through life, cussing at life itself

Like we had a spare in our dirty closets.

This night will not be the death of me

 

Smoking guns reaping death’s harvest for our father the devil

smiling and cheering and waiting for us at hell’s gate

as we gang-warred on bloody pavements.

This night will not be the death of me

 

Sirens screaming blue murder as sewer rats scrambled for cover

running, ducking, upsetting waste bins as we looked for an exit

in the smoke-filled streets, groping in tear-gassed frenzy.

This night will not be the death of me

 

Yet a bullet found me with my name on it,  and dazed, eyes turning pale,

hands dragging me as I smelled the antiseptic interior of an ambulance,

doctors reeling out orders, mom crying, and I soaring towards a Man above in white saying

This night will not be the death of you.

 

I awake with head pounding.