Sometimes,
I wish that when my
break cable snapped,
(you know, the one you fixed for me with your falsetto expertise)
in a downpour of slashing rain,
I skid through the stale green light, turning red, like the leaves now on the trees.

I would be unable to stop, because of your spite
(you had it out for me all along)

I can picture it,
slow motion and horror,
gliding across pavement
until I become a physics problem:

"If Sally is riding her bicycle at a velocity of _, and a vehicle strikes her at a speed of _,  
how far will she fly through the air until splatting like an egg?"

I would feel satisfied
as you hung from a noose of guilt
just as you indulge in the power
of squandering the love city we built.