The impact shook my hands
for minutes of trembling afterwards.
Now I was the one.
It had become my turn
to be the spectacle, the obstruction,
the evening drive time sideshow.
The flashing lights came quickly
and absolved me.
I loaded my bumper in my backseat
blinding my blind spots
by turning the outside in
and drove off to face the impending consequences
that would make those seconds
stretch into weeks
and thousands of dollars.
I received the news
and instantly, maniacally searched
for the next one.
I took action, I had my bubble burst,
I retreated, I discussed, I weighed the options
I justified to myself, to the ones I love.
I awoke to dealer add-ons
and felt the friendly rapport of the salesmen
dissolve into adversarial cajoling.
The distance traveled by my calculating heart
to find deals in far off fields paid off
replacing sedan with stealth
overcoming in succession sentimentality
and attachment to the idea that I could
squeeze every last drop
from the prior’s rapidly depreciating odometer.
Now, my former back seat boudoir,
my near death chamber, will be summed up as parts
salvaged to be greater than the whole,
or maybe to live again as a gladiator
in some mud bogged derby
piloted by someone deranged
and as intent on inflicting as much damage
as I was careful to avoid .