A gelid mid-winter day, after
boreal black ice blanketed the road
overnight, like an enemy stealth bomber,
splenetic drivers, a swarming army of
menacing red ants on the march, passes
anything that moves, bound for carnage,
behemoths hog the road bullying
hybrids out of the way.
A jack-knifed trailer-truck
lying on its side, a wounded elephant,
air-horns bellow mournfully.
A nine car pile-up in the sleet and fog,
metal to metal clashing like giant
cymbals, blood splattered glass,
clanking hub-caps and the wails
of the injured waiting for the jaws-of-life
as a crushed Suzuki becomes a flying
fireball sailing over the guard rail.
A severed head rolls down the hillside.
As the curious move on, they vow
to drive more carefully, reach for coffee
and begin to dial.
Milton P. Ehrlich