Windows down,
blasting sounds of classic rock n’ roll
carried by the humid summer air
to annoy families at intersections.

I tap one hand on the wheel, poorly
to the beat of the drum,
while the other catches the wind.

The sun is bright.

I glance down at the freshly-printed
hard-copy license resting on the dash.
The elusive plastic card
offering freedom for
summertime shenanigans
and day long road trips;
the shear that cuts you free
from your parent’s leash--

reach over to the volume-
just a bit too loud.

    Flashing lights.
Not blue.
Red and white,
An ambulance,
A quarter mile ahead
Barreling toward three cars
Bent on awkward angles.

Two partially in a ditch,
One on its side
Twisted and warped
Like a mess of mangroves and glass.

The only recognizable part left,
A blood-stained window shattered
In a serrated spider web.

Hunks of mangled steel and rubber scattered
Across the road
And the contents of the battered trunk
Pilled across the median.

A crimson duffel bag
Split at the seams
Full of beach toys
Revealing.

A  crushed plastic bucket;
A light blue shovel;
and a teddy bear face down,
blackened from the hot tar.

    The medics throw out a black tarp
To cover the remains.

The sun is bright.

I shield my eyes
And turn away.