by Jon Wesick
I ran over a child, today.
Watched the sad, little pile of flesh
recede in the mirror. Couldn’t stop.
I was late for an 8:00 AM meeting.
So many piles along the road –
pelicans, polar bears,
an entire 8th-grade class in Arab clothing.
Those good-for-nothing state workers
better get off their butts
and keep the streets clear!
Complain all you want about SUVs
but their bumpers are great! Hardly a dent
and it’s my third collision this week.
Blood will be tough to clean
after baking all day in the sun. Why
can’t they build a carwash at work?
Hell, Amy’s white Lamborghini
is splattered with crimson
and Jim’s always plucking tiny fingers
from his pickup truck’s grill.
I’m not one of those guys
who mounts trophies on his hood
or stencils little stick figures on his door
but the naysayers don’t appreciate
the music of a V-8 engine, its drumbeat
of pistons and melody of alternator,
the harmony of its fuel injection
Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics, has practiced Buddhism for over twenty years, and has published over a hundred poems in small press journals such as American Tanka, Anthology Magazine, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Edgz, The Kaleidoscope Review, Limestone Circle, The Magee Park Anthology, The Publication, Pudding, Sacred Journey, San Diego Writer’s Monthly, Slipstream, Tidepools, Vortex of the Macabre, Zillah, and others. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards.
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