Low Speed Collision
Then his finger-bones were dug in and grabbing between my jaw.
Then I was knocking against the door, the plaster wall--him.
I was spinning out,
barely scraping the pavement,
like a speeding tire on that wet country road;
with him circling wildly through my mirrors--
he, the telephone pole,
for a split second promising to give me what I was wanting.
I never could decide whether I was grateful that he was such a lousy shot.