The driver of the white Sentra in front of me
at this legendary most dangerous intersection in the city
has tossed a handful of crumpled bills into the face
of a panhandler on the curb.
He’s turned left onto the highway ramp,
accelerated, is gone.
I could see him laughing
through his open window
before he got away.
I turn wide around the old man
as he steps off the curb into traffic,
bending to try and collect the money
before the wind takes it.
If this were not
the most dangerous intersection
in the city, I would stop to help,
or at least to block the cars
behind me. As it is
as I turn onto
that same ramp —
slipping toward ruin
on a puddle of shed grace.