Rush Hour on Alameda

by

Doug Larson

Time slows as I round the curve
of the road. The flares glow red
and are the first things I see.

They must be dead.

The truck looms large and unnatural
across the grain of the road,
all around, it's load.

They must have known.

A twisted hulk of a car;
Quasimoto with seats for five,
and in the driver's seat, the engine sits.

No one alive.

A man lays sprawled in the road
with the paramedics milling around
pumping his chest. He is dead

on the ground.

I look briefly as I pass by,
imprinting this macabre scene in my brain.
Now, I have the open road before me

and it starts to rain.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Definition
by: Frank Valentyn
from: Johannesburg, Gauteng, South Africa

To visit all of Doug Larson's poems, click HERE

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