Saturday, June 04, 2016


I drove for hours and hours.  I decided I’d never tell a living soul what happened, not even my best friend.  I’d never tell anyone.

Then, the car crash.

A cop picked me up at a little diner.

I called him from a payphone outside the gas station, then I had called my sister and left her a message.

In the diner, all those stupid people looking at me, wondering if I was a criminal.

In the cop’s car, there were no door handles in the back. 

The cop told me stories as he drove; told me I was lucky to be alive.

And I was.

At the police station, standing in line for hours… cold coffee in a styrofoam cup; the dull thud of waiting.

The car graveyard.  Rows and rows of twisted and mangled machines lined-up in order of severities.

One had been torn inside-out.

One looked like it had been scooped-up with a giant spatula.

One was crushed and bent up to the sky like a sculpture.

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