That day when you were shot,
Is a day we’ll forget not,
And of course neither will you,
Nor your husband, the astronaut.
Meeting people, shaking hands.
Taking questions and demands,
Making time to act upon them.
But that man had other plans.
Approached you like a passerby,
Intending there and then you’d die.
With many others, he succeeded,
Not with you, though he did try.
Assassin’s bullet could not kill.
You did not die through luck or will.
And right back work you went,
Still climbing that recovery hill.
Dear lady, take more time.
All the time you need, resign.
And come back fully healed.
And feeling at your peak and prime.
You took a bullet in the head,
It’s a miracle you’re not dead.
You’re the luckiest woman alive,
Or the first immortal instead.

Inspired by this piece in today’s New York Times, in response to the New York Times Headline Poetry Picnic Challenge.