Meteors, like crime, happen to other people:
500 fragments raining down on the frozen surface of Tagish Lake,
a thousand pound clump smashing to Earth in an Arizonan canyon.
Sure, lightning strikes close, even incinerated a barn not three blocks from here.
But, in those three blocks, there’s so many houses, so many lives,
such a buffer between you and I and the bad things that happen.
Moira’s cousin was mugged, but that’s Moira, not a close friend.
And just one cousin out of twenty three, who lives in Los Angeles, not here.
Besides, it was a mugging, not a murder. It’s one random incident
happening just this side of nothing happening to nobody nowhere.

We’re safe. Space debris can’t harm us. The weather has other
people on its mind. And if the criminals were a little more petty
they’d be our best friends. It gets so I begin to believe that
you and I will live forever. Harm’s way is not our way.
We can’t wait to tell our bodies.