5-28 Son Day

This occurred many years ago while I worked in High Point, NC:

 

Our Worlds

 

cycle from heaves of sensations: lust, rage, rapture, anguish

to rational purpose: penetrating a genome

 

or driving. A shady side street camouflages a stop sign

along a familiar route.

 

My two-ton Lumina and an SUV

are two particles fated on a concussion course.

Barely time to slam my eyelids. Projectiles crunch.

Fiberglass and metal crumple like foil.

Glass and plastic shards ricochet on oily asphalt.

 

The SUV revs, vanishes around a corner.

 

He’s a dealer, a bystander says.

 

The Lumina is askew in the crossroad.

Steam rises from the hood.

 

In stunned rapture,

drenched as an icehouse floor,

I find bone and blood are still skin deep.

 

Grace if there ever was any.

 

 

 

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