And a tree falls on your head

The ram in the desert runs from the lioness,
prays with all four legs for his neck and breath,
galloping and sucking the hot dust.
The ram rips the air with his curled horns,
snorting, chomping and clacking his teeth.
The lioness, sleek golden death with fangs
and paws the size of the ram's haunches, and claws!
The ram is no match and deep in his muscles he knows it.
Death is coming faster than he can run, and faster
every second. Who lives? Who eats? Time is the decider,
time and a twist of the ankle and a speck of dust in the eye.

And in our barren streets we scurry,
praying to calm our worries about elevators,
tap-dancing on the pavement for a quarter.
What is this air that we suck, this carbon air,
this plague of sand and locusts?
In our cars and on park benches we sit and moan,
"Black out our eyes," we cry and our throats mean it.
"Stop staring at the clock," we say to ourselves
in our secret hearts, "Time will never pass."
But the clock ticks and it clicks out our fortunes
sure as sunrise, the second hand and a broken hip and a tree falls on your head.