Tin Can

I stepped out in the late-night air–

A car sped past in the wrong lane

As my numbed hands struggled with my keys.

“Jackass” slipped from my mouth.

I jerked my head at the sound

Of a tin can being crushed.

Except this “tin can” was a car crash.

A sky-blue mini van’s horn blared

As loud as fireworks on the fourth.

It wouldn’t stop.

I turned to his car, shuddering–

white paint stained blue,

front smashed in,

windshield departed.

People rushed past me to him,

And I slowly walked over.

His legs were contorted,

Like a pretzel twist.

Green bruises forming,

blood staining his skin,

parts pulverized from cut-glass.

Then I noticed the blood on my shirt.

Touching my forehead,

There’s a small gash

From the glass that flew past.

Red lights flashed,

Then came blue.

Men pulled him out slowly,

And I heard his brittle breaths.

                        He’s alive.

This is in my past,

But it always comes back

Like an ocean current

Becoming grander by the second.

That small gash has become a scar,

Yet it does not compare

To the scars in my mind.

I remind myself each time

That

                        He and I are alive.