Built Ford tough

His hands shook pushing the door shut

we both watched the lock click closed.

Over the counter he reported how

your head slammed against cherry red and chrome recoiling

like some seesaw made of bone, a volley soft meat can never win

went up and back and crack

you fell on rumble strips, stopped feeling

the grooves light beams

shot over red and wet.

I tell him I’m glad he’s okay. I hope it was quick.

It wasn’t his fault. I don’t think it was.

I’ll drive to the restaurant tonight I hope you made it to the woods

before your body caught bloat

out of view of the road, the guilty

screaming on four wheels.

Before the fruit of that broken neck

drips to sweeten leaf litter, not pavement.

Asphalt is undeserving of your late mural.

I hope the air is sweet and cold, stars shoot your eyes

grab the last light between kudzu cover,

the glow wrapping brown hide in honey.

I hope a bouquet of mushrooms meets you halfway, clustered like small families

joined at the hip, arms and faces outstretched toward your soft decay.

I hope they’re kinder than man.