Highways

It always happens,
some kid tops a hill at a hundred and ten
with wine and life strong on his breath
just as an old man crawls onto the highway,
his bony hands atop the wheel, neck stretching
to get that extra few inches of vision,
and they meet there, old and young,
on the tree lined black carpet of America.
One neck breaks forward, one breaks aft,
and the moon stirs up a galaxy of broken glass.
Cars stop; an ambulance is called.
They are wrapped and loaded, eighteen and eighty.
The ambulance retreats slowly, quietly.
The stars are swept away.


(Voices International, Fall 1985)