Monday, October 27, 2003

You cry for your car and time lost in a tangle
of limbs in the headlights, the deer's momentum
carrying it thrashing to the shoulder.
The stink of antifreeze tells me we're going to need
a ride, though we're still an hour from home.

That's what friends are for, I think, as we start making calls
to insurance, wreckers and a rescuer
who immediately gets in his car because, after all,
that is what friends are for.

You dry your tears on my coat as I think about the time
lost and decide that it's instead a gift, time stolen out
of life too full at times, like the small town truck stop coffee
waved off with a "don't worry about it", and we spend the hour
in the classifieds, swapping dreams
of a place in the country with acres, and a barn.

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