Thump. Thump. Thump.
Flat tire morning in November.
Harder and harder to steer.
Someone ought to fix it.
There will be a wreck otherwise.
Pull. Pull. Pull.
Steering wheel starting to pull hard right.
That guardrail will be impotent against this momentum.
Embankment beyond it and dirty creek at the bottom.
Lots of trees between but nothing large enough to break a plunge.
Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.
A promise of more than scratch and dent.
Forget about salvage if that happens.
Have to climb up and out if it lands in toxic muck.
Leave it behind smashed beyond repair to leak more poisons.
Shake. Shake. Shake.
Standing cold and smeared with blood and more.
Standing dark on a highway shoulder.
Shaking alive but trembling toward less so.
No one to tell or beg for help.
Lights far away seem to be aimed here.
Whatever is next comes rough and unsteady.