Frantic Woman

 

Frantic Woman

Tires of my pickup grip the mountain
over patches of ice.
Road is narrow, cars few. From the rear,
headlights cut through mist.
Coming fast.

On a curve without hesitation
the BMW passes. Eyes meet
so near we could almost touch hands.
Blonde, beautiful,
with a clenched jaw.
Her sedan swerves on the glaze,
fishtails out of control —
cutting me off.

I crush the brake pedal.
Wheels lock and slide.
My white truck bearing a rack of lumber
glides friction-free
like a windblown cloud
to the guard rail and crunches
to a stop
at the edge of a precipice.
Toolboxes slam-bang against the back of the cab
while redwood two-by-sixes break free
of straps and hurtle over the hood
down the side of the canyon.

Oblivious, obsessed,
she and her sedan recover traction,
disappear like a cruise missile
around a bend
to go someplace important.

I shut off the motor. Close
my eyes. Breathing.
Loving the fact that I breathe.
If ever I see her somewhere,
maybe she’s buying a latte,
what shall I say?

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in The Literary Nest—thank you editor Pratibha Kelapure
Photo by Christoph Muller