Thunder comes to earth
when metal shifts against metal
and childhood flashes its inheritance,
swerving vows into curbs.
My breathing stops,
then starts again when
Thyra’s open eyes meet mine.
We survive, forever joined
in this world shrouded in chaos.
The other driver screams his fucking anger
into dusk’s falling face.
Neighborhood men calm him, as two squad cars arrive.
It starts to feel like some sort of Surreality TV,
when out from the darkness,
a tall white haired man rushes the police
his chest stuck out, his hands fisted.
He is tazed, and we are dazed.
Thyra, Hopper, and I,
alive on the street
viewing the world through this umbrella
We stand there
watching events unfold as
excuses rub shoulders with lies
that run deeper than light can go.
That evening forms family stories
for all of us
standing on the corner of Fifth and Fourth
when a Stratus sent our Beetle sailing in a circle
through the center of the street
opening up a portal to a strange reality.
Brenda Warren 2012
This accident was the first of two accidents Thyra and I experienced together within 10 days of each other. She was the driver in the second accident, where we were rear-ended in the family van. That accident occurred last Thursday, and had an almost equally bizarre aftermath with the driver and passengers. It feels otherworldly to have experienced two such strange events so closely together. We received a fair price from the insurance company for Gladys, my 2000 Volkswagen Beetle, the one with U ROCK on her license plate. We’ll sink that money into a black Jeep Cherokee. The family van will run until she’s put out to pasture somewhere. Hopper is our beloved family dog.
For readers who aren’t aware, the F-Bomb is the word fuck. It was overused that night. I included it in my poem, as it defined both the driver and his father-in-law. It was his father-in-law who charged the police from out of nowhere.
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