I’m sorry sending the angels was all I could do
as I knelt in the glass and mud.
Spring won’t come this year.
I didn’t see you until you almost
hit the back corner of my car, almost
took me with you, rolling, scraping, across concrete,
flipping, air dirt air dirt, glass, metal, tree –
I already knew before my car came to rest on the edge.
Smoke began to rise from your truck, and it was all
so close you were to me, to the tree, to right side up and upside down,
to where you were going,
so close. I asked them to be with you,
when the other voices yelled, “Step back!”
And today what’s left of your almost –
a tire with a white cross and flowers,