I don't want to die today,
not like this -
on I-65 with the black exhaust
of Bubba trucks making my blood congeal
on asphalt seamed with tar and white paint.
If I'm going to die,
let it be somewhere green
while a soft breeze turns the pages of my
let it by while I'm holding my dog and whispering
my final words into his ear.
I want to say this to the cars drag-racing their
way to work this morning.
"I don't want to die here on an interstate of strangers."
But, they don't listen, even when I blare my horn
as one of them cuts me off and I miss clipping his
bumper by mere kisses of space.