I try to make them stop, wave them over
to cracked curb, or thrust my arms out, shouting
“Halt!” I even scream, “Hey, I’m your lover!”
Hurl my body in dark road, lie pouting,
awaiting crushing wheels. But only hear
tires howling, angry wail of horns, tongue blasts
billowing flaming curses. Through charred tears
I view their blurring carcasses streak past
like flaring rainbows. Then silence. Lying still,
still alone, I start to listen. Sense clicks
of crickets, skylarks’ litany fill
clean breeze, scent of distant pines, discern flicks
of sun. Raise my head. See far-off hills, fair
and emerald. Rise to make my way there.
Roger Armbrust
November 6, 2010
