Low Speed Collision

Then his finger-bones were dug in and grabbing between my jaw.

Then I was knocking against the door, the plaster wall--him.

I was spinning out,

barely scraping the pavement,

like a speeding tire on that wet country road;

with him circling wildly through my mirrors--

he, the telephone pole,

for a split second promising to give me what I was wanting.

Almost delivering.

I never could decide whether I was grateful that he was such a lousy shot.