ON HIGHWAY 9
They've reached the end with the
yellow crane and I watch the truck
lifted off the shoulder, and beneath
it rests, flat, a yellow car. Nothing
you'd want back home, believe me.
There's two bodies inside, dead like
dreams. Trying to extricate the living
seems easier than the dead. 'They were
probably all going 80,' the one guy says,
'no one does the limit anymore; and if
you don't really know the road, that
twist and bend will get you every time.
Big rigs, like that, they can't stop in
time, and the back just whip-saws them
over the marker. At least that guy's alive,
high up like that, unless he's thrown,
they stand a chance. Too bad, the others.
Maybe every two months something
like this goes on. For these guys now
it's a drill.' A sad scene goes down,
like a calendar page gets turned.
Torn. Ripped. Thrown away.
Doing the limit. Reaching
end. All the same, I guess.