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 . . .