Benjamin Blackhurst

DEAR TROLLEY FROM THE TROLLEY PROBLEM

The quick and dirty of it is the real thing. Like wax paper or a ragdoll,
just passing through a ghost town, except it’s all flesh and blood
and no wonder it’s the end, unseemly as that. Pity the double slit
experiment—the same kind of light show but no one dies. Someone,
anyone, give you a safe word, a dose of dilaudid; leave the chalk behind
in the hands of a child. They could have packed you with vaccines
and saved a few lives. Or with flowers, strangely named: clever
Orpheus, Newton’s prism, breaking-like-a-cloud. Dear one-track
mind, it’s not your fault.