12-7 Coincidence?

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.