When you blink, the world just passes you by
and the guy you thought was a newbie has mysteriously died
and you do a little research and no one knows why;
he just took a dirt nap after closing his eyes.

I’ve been rolling along, just living my life
when I wondered, “What happened to Nicholas Knife,
the theoretical mixologist at Snapper’s Retreat?”
I hadn’t seen him for a minute. Now he’s under six feet.

The Internet could tell me that he died years ago
and though I asked what happened the reportage workflow
provided no real details, and he wasn’t real old.
In fact, he was about my age, or so I was told

so the cause could not be natural. I mean: how could it
occur for someone of my years? The logic mis-fit.
It had to be an accident – or murder! Or drugs!
Or he got mugged or plugged or hit by the assassin bug.

Or maybe, possibly, I blinked, and years have passed
and in all that time, I never got off my ass.
And Nicky just died, and I could be next.
Shit, I’m wrecked.