Factual event, many summers ago, while on route to see a mental health client in High Point NC:
A shady side-street camouflages a stop sign
along a familiar route. My mind reconstructs the sign
posted on the other corner as I daydream.
My 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.