Collision Course
I was driving home from Boy Scout Camp —
my first job — praise accepted, farewells said —
still some summer left — going eighty
down the Alloway Road.
Then the uniform I had hung
in back caught the air, whipped around,
half out the window. I reached
back to grab it, eyes off the road
just two seconds, looked back
at a row of big trees at the edge
of the asphalt two-lane
I was about the leave — pulled
the wheel left — not hard enough
to skid, and the passenger side
hit a tree just behind the back door
and crushed the fender
like it was an aluminum beer can.
But I was back on the road, intact,
heading straight for home.
Don’t think I didn’t thank
my guardian angel, animal instinct,
or whoever wired the warning signal
into my neurons years before GPS,
back-up cameras and automatic
highway spacing control.
Thirty years later, the warning light
comes back on — this time she’s 29,
beautiful, smart with an edge, intrigued —
of course — by everything I do or say.
She wants oh wants to be my muse,
but she’s not my guardian angel —
has no intention of helping me get home
to my life in one piece.
Again, I’m going eighty miles per hour –
down that narrow road
in a much nicer car. I know
she’s in the back seat already
and I’ll turn my head. I’ll reach
for her and the trees will be right there,
have been waiting with all the time
I have left in the world.