by Ashley Gwen Patrick

The odometer needle danced around eighty,
Like the tapping foot of an impatient lady.

Heavy eyes with braided lashes,
When a sleeping driver crashes.

A brief blink of blotted memory.
Rolling wreckage of metal fury.

Smoke, dirt, blood.
Lonely road.

A trucker stranger chanced upon her.
Fleetingly, he became her savior.

A vivid memory, not remembered.
But her story, just wait, lives were numbered.

Just like a cat gets nine,
This left six that were mine.

My head was cracked and I fell bent,
Imagined, injuring, incident.

A dislocation.
A laceration.

When my mind was truly blackened,
Vivid it seemed, it happened.