Not Like the Movies

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I hit an 81-year-old man today with my car.
I made a wide turn as I was rushing to get somewhere.
October 3rd 1989. Don’t worry, the man was not injured, and neither was I.
He had a slight resemblance to someone I had known,
a possible Larry David with an age that showed, and a news cap on.
We are safe, not sound, but we are

still, my cochlea rings like your unanswered call,
the sound of the clash between the two metal beasts, alarming,

Alarming, because it was not, like what you hear
in the movies, with the glass, breaking, and the very loud
crunching of a soda can,
together they could not sing such an unnatural tune,
the note that tried to resemble silence in its purpose for
Destruction. Nothing quite like it.
A sense of reeling, that jolt, and the after pause,
a completely inappropriate realization that
even the car crashes in Hollywood are fake.

You will feel the numbness
like a shot of Novocain, as it washes down your face
as the series of events play, and play through,
your mind like a scratched record lacking someone
kind enough to take the spindle off.
A purge of sorts as the emotions spill out of your almond shaped skies.
Hunched over on the hot black pavement that’s burning your dress,
You look over at him, and even though he is fine,
the events set in, and the poundings begin, with the hate of the world upon you.
I hope the man is okay. John I think is his name.





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