T-Boned
(alternate title: What it Would Be Like if Robert Frost Drove to Town for a Gallon of Milk in this Day in My Depressed Rage)
Rolling to a stop, designated, octagon red,
tires crunch and spit, loose gravel flies free,
spraying out, peppering the grassy shoulder,
two directions now, the road ahead, a T.
Not a fork, this road not taken,
nor dead end, brick wall or tree line;
a simple decision need be made,
do I go left at this intersection, or right?
What is right?
And what is left?
I question.
Idling.
Cars speed by, smeared in both directions,
a surveyor's crew clings to the roadside,
pending road work looms, so the sign says,
"construction begins June 10," take note.
I wonder, then, if I pull out too soon,
or is it too late? ... in front of this, that
or the other blue-green-red blur of cars,
just how loud the sound of metal kissing?
Will shattered glass chill the air, wind chiming,
as blood leaks against my skin, from the inside,
and how fast will the orange-vested men run,
as I call for help, if I cry at all, how so this quiet?
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josie