The Way They Stopped

Sometimes I dream of them,

the sunny day they met

at the four-way stop

and everything changed.

The motorcycle catapulted

and flipped

above its driver, finally landing

on top of him. I could see his legs,

the way they moved

and soon,

the way they stopped.

The red convertible

slammed into a tree

and turned over on its side,

where two young

women lay on the ground.

One of them was talking,

telling the other, over and over,

how sorry she felt.

She held her hands up to her face.

Someone ran out of a house

with blankets

and covered them.

She was screaming now.

I wanted to go home,

and later I did,

driving right through it.