The Dead Guy

by James B. Nicola

I was a little late to my own murder.
The stabber stabbed some other guy instead.
Just heard they caught the culprit in Chicago.
The guy the stabber stabbed did end up dead.

What happened was, I did some stretches first,
instead of heading out at half-past five.
Sit-ups and push-ups too. So I went out
at six or so. And so I am alive.

At Tenth, the city woke as was its wont.
Then lights spun from the end of 43rd.
More cops were coming as I reached the river.
They'd caught it all on camera, someone heard. 

I did more talking than jogging that morning.
Dog walkers, strollers, other joggers, too.
Three said that they were really glad to see me.
One said, "We were afraid the guy was you."

A few days later, in the elevator,
a neighbor told me that he'd heard (or read)
the stabber, boozing with a band of boozers,
shooting up and showing off, had said

(at half-past five in Hudson River Park),
"I'm gonna stab the next guy that I see."
Pier 84. It's where I jog. Since I
was late that morning, it wasn't me.

The dead guy, it turned out, was from New Jersey.
I can't quite bring myself to utter, "There
but for the grace . . . " (How could one even think
it?!), but, while jogging, might say a prayer.

New York City, July 13, 2023

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James B. Nicola’s poems have appeared in the Antioch, Southwest and Atlanta Reviews; Rattle; and Barrow Street. The latest three of his eight poetry collections are Fires of Heaven, Turns & Twists, and Natural Tendencies. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience won a Choice magazine award. A graduate of Yale, he has received a Dana Literary Award, two Willow Review awards, one Best of Net, one Rhysling, and eleven Pushcart nominations—for which he feels both stunned and grateful.