O Ubiquitous Crossfire

So many years I have been caught in the trajectory

Of randomly propelled bullets of light

The ricochets are gorgeous, I have observed

Prismatic spasms of polychrome

There are moments poisoned by the angst of urban warfare, snipers' sites fixed on my every turn

I dive for cover behind rusting fenders of abandoned curbside Oldsmobiles

Uninspired tires sagging on the grey cement

Soundlessly the bullets of light shatter when they hit a hubcap

Other times I stride wide-eyed, awed and flippant, choreographing some intimate, organic ballet

I stretch myself to a height that strains the tiny muscles webbed among my ribs

Stepping to an intuitive rhythm as the bullets fly, those speeding capsules of light

They delight me like fireflies over a grassy Vermont field just after sundown

I wonder why at times

I seem destined to be constantly moving into the trajectory of these

Ever-flying bullets of light

Is this a blessing or a curse or an accident or some minor phenomenon, entirely mundane?

When I am hit with a spit of light, it doesn't sting

But sometimes I bleed, sometimes I laugh, sometimes I dread the day will come

When I fail to notice.