The week God spares me

my immune system works as hard as it should;
nothing less, nothing more; the sole victim

my sense of smell. The mouse behind the stove
does not chew a hole in the gas pipe,

or the electrical wires, or make a souvenir
of my skin. The glass shard in my foot is not

teeming with tetanus. A fire on the A-Line
pushes the 3 ahead of schedule

and I am not on the platform when
a deranged man decides who next

is destined for the tracks. I am shopping
for garbage bags at Home Depot.

When I brush past a man on my way out
he shouts, “watch it, bitch!”

follows me to the parking lot,
but does not gun me down.

Three blocks from the fashion district,
a woman spills a stranger open

on the sidewalk. His blood curdles,
frosts over in the cracks.

I am watching re-runs of Frasier,
100-degree fever just beginning to sate.