The chill iron nickel copper terror of a car sliding on black sheet ice,
so nearing destruction that ears are already braced for the screech --
it's just that, with gas.

With gas, with intention, my phantom foot presses proverbial pedal to metal,
completely aware of the impending breakage, pain, loss, guilt.

Phantom lips smile and laugh, bitter white,
because he sits in the passenger seat, trust blinding from the wreckage ahead.

I will hurt and be hurt, but phantom limbs feel no pain.