The Speaker Tells a Story. The Voices Ask a Question.

Was barreling down the road in a ’77 silver Hornet station wagon. Almost comical. Could fit a passle of children and animals.

Under what sky? Was it glitterpicked? How many windows?

Many windows/ daylight cut through/ my throat tightened/ no blood/ several snowbirds flew overhead

Where were you going?

You mean toward which personal loss was I heading?

PAUSE

I turned and turned the key turned the key/ sputtered and shook and stopped/ turned the key again/ the sky a cloudless ache/ have you ever seen a blue ache/ crossed through by snowbirds? No blood…

When the car finally started where were you going?

Barreling down the road in a ’77 Hornet. Almost comical, heading toward the hospital, flying through stop signs, flying through squirrels, angular weeds shuddering I banged past

And?

9 miles to go , white Buick ahead , the driver driving the limits down the road I was barreling the driver then slowing, slowed below the limits…

???

I honked I flashed my lights I yelled out the window I honked flashed yelled “Move on…Move on…” The birds fled the driver slowed near to a halt

He didn’t move to the shoulder?

He gave me the finger before turning left. He was not thinking about private loss ... the sky ached bright, weeds, angled up, sideways, frozen silver, the ’77 Hornet barreling, weaving and honking in his rearview mirror on a road that was otherwise

Quite empty.

Almost drained the road was, The birds didn’t return.

When do we think about private loss, the private loss of other drivers on the road?

When do we think about our own?

I wasn’t thinking the driver wasn’t budging he wasn’t thinking

Did you ever make it to the hospital?

He wasn’t lying down on the bed, he was sitting up, his eyes closed, face beautifully painless, his skin opaque

BREAK

I got to the hospital late. I paused for a fatal minute at the gleaming doors...