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 . . .