Hit & Run

by Betsy Sholl

It wasn’t a Mac truck wanting me dead,
just a blue car, young woman on the phone.
Good, Biene Biene the license plate read.

At least, that’s what the other drivers said,
who circled back to check, with worried tones:
no black truck or semi wanting more dead,

just a blue car clipping me as it sped
through the crosswalk, eager to get home,
to sweet Biene, as its license plate read.

But a car aimed straight at you?  That is dread.
Halfway across the street, I froze, a stone.
Maybe there was no truck wanting me dead, 

but still it seemed my whole life had led
to that one moment of impact, crushed bone
to bruise, to Biene, the license plate red,

as if some death force prowled the earth and fed
on humans, struck down en masse or alone.
No, it wasn’t a truck wanting me dead.
Still, Biene, Biene, that license plate read . . .