I can’t bring myself to write about Kobe.
I thought him invincible,
in the same way Prince was eternal.

The ruthlessness,
The callousness against fellow man,
As if you had hardened your hands against hugs and love;
Your hands were only for the ball.
Because legends are etched in granite and gold
And not the jealous and insecure soundbites of athletes
And plebs
That fade into history and bit reels played on cable sports documentaries.

All I can think about is you being a machine,
And only another machine possessing the strength to do you in,
With the Lord’s ironies, like wildfire, indiscriminate
To the innocent
And to us who remain, the bereaved.