A car stops on the freeway.
A gloomy sky weeps
over this one, rotten day.
The man inside sleeps.
He dreams of honey scented
lotion on soft skin,
tobacco, rich and minted,
and a youthful spin.
Traffic, a blur around him,
unending burden,
a collision, then a hymn-
Radio sermon.
And the last thought that lingers
is, “please forgive me”.
There is blood on those fingers.
And more on his knee.
Exhaust plumes, shattering smog.
Our man pays a price.
No soul hoisted from the fog-
pointless sacrifice.
Crowds come to witness the wreck,
and to kiss their luck.
Like pigeons, they hop and peck-
squawking, heartless ruck.
Dollar Store goods strewn about,
diapers included,
the road runs red from a spout,
highway occluded.
Behind the line they’re whining,
“Will I be on time?”
Dead ahead, simply pining
for his wasted prime.
He’s killed his child, who’s survived
to view his remains,
mangled, hopeless, and deprived,
his blood in her veins.
