~~~~~O~~~~~
Witness, The Wreck on Hwy. 78 The sound of it makes hot bile boil itself into my throat; crash and slow grind fades to dead silence. Through my window I see a small blue convertible. It isn't. It is cut clean from the top to the doors. Empty, thank God. But, it isn't. The truck driver comes; crawls, head in hands into my office. "I think I killed someone" he says. "Maybe two". I make the call to 911; offer the driver coffee. He is on his knees praying. Such weeping. The deputy takes me aside. Six members of a local family we all know and love, out to celebrate a birthday, cut sharp; each cleanly in half. Life is no longer visible through my avoided window. How do you tell a praying man what he has done? Shirley Alexander © 2007 author's note: this poem was written from my memory of an actual event.Return to: That‘s Life
