4 jacknifed freight trucks and a collection of cars crumpled and tossed to the side of the highway like discarded pages torn from a spiral notebook.

poetry

So pretty soon
your hands are off the wheel
and you dodged what you could
and you’re already floating

and when the first hit sounds
you don’t feel so bad
and the second one,
it rattles you loose

But the music keeps playing
and it’s still okay to drive
as long as the going’s slow.
The cops won’t seem to mind.

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