You lie mangled: meshed with steel.
Thought you could catch that Studebaker.
Blind curve, and their toggle-switched-off brake lights
made the impossible look so easy.
You tried to follow that ‘59 Hawk- too late,
you discovered: not a great idea.
Your Crown Vic flipped.
Here you are, and now them boys,
they come back to gloat, and maybe piss in your wounds.
It’s a bad day to be a good guy,
but you’re a nice diversion to bored youth: you.
Coughing blood and spitting curses
while a lit cigarette is pressed
into the gaping bloody hole
that some stray steel managed to give you.
The pain is beginning to make itself known.
You wait and pray for the kill shot.
Instead, them wild eyed boys watch in amusement,
betting on your longevity, joking about
how ridicules you look in that compromised position.
It’s a dead road. Hardly traveled by day,
and it’s way past midnight. They’re betting you didn’t
call in- Off duty- Rookie!
They know how you are: hot dog-glory hound.
Now: “howl, boy, howl!”
“Don’t let him die just yet!”
They cut off an ear, gouge out an eye-
fillet your protruding and shattered left arm.
They get off on the screaming.
But hey, that time spent
in church should comfort you in knowing
no matter how much you suffer-
Look what was done to Jesus.