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.