Changing Stations

There’s a guy in the car next to us

surfing the stations

and I decide to surf mine.

I press the four buttons and skip

the missing one

and then hit SCAN.

I look up

at a green light and take my foot

off of the brake

moving it quickly to the gas.

I need to move quickly today because

I am behind on everything.



Loose belts.

Novel editing.

Kickstarter T’s.

January’s rent payment.

Stores that carry ‘92 Nissan pickup belts.

So I have to move fast because life is a race

and it’s so easy to finish the race

with nothing accomplished

and your children following in your footsteps.

I’m turning left to go to Wal-Mart

before heading to Governor’s where they carry the A\C belt

because I have to get                                              .







Not mine, but I can feel it.

I turn to my wife who is ‘Oh my Godding’ and

tell her to “come sit where I am and get our car out of the road.”

Some one is dead.

Of that I am sure.

A tan SUV never hit the brakes

and so it flipped and landed

uncatlike on its side while the guy in the TBone

is angled down into the culvert

and is sliding, with much less blood than one would imagine,

out of his crumpled door like a lazy fried egg,

thrashing in pain as if covered in ants and blind

and holding his chest and looking nowhere.


I look over at the SUV and a colorful fat lady is climbing down through the windshield.


People come from all sides to the huddle,

a few calling plays –

turn his car off

don’t move, don’t let him move

Memorial and _________, and yes it’s bad!  We need an ambulance now!

My wife leans over and stops him from moving,

talks to him

tells him what happens

each time he asks,

gives him a focal point.

He stops moving around

and I see blood in his eye

as I look for embedded glass

and lean in his car to find the radio is still playing.

I turn the car off and

lean into the door, scrunching it back against metal

so it won’t open on the guy.

His wallet is under him and

I pick it up and hold it with his keys and

give them to a busy paramedic.


I look over at the fat lady and chubbyyounggirl who are standing in the median.

They are dressed from one of those stores that rich men’s wives open in strip centers because they are bored.

The kind that sell gaudy blandishments for ridiculous prices.

The girl jumps straight up and down and whines for her daddy.

Neither plump is visibly hurt.

Neither plump has walked over to check on the man in limbo.


I wonder if she was on the phone and have a sudden urge to grab her

by her fatblondehead and drag her across glass and metal

punching her in the face along the way

over to the man whose life/song she interrupted

and make her –


“Can you drive a stick shift?”

A strange question in the now.

A lady left her truck in the turning lane.

A five speed.

I make my way across four lanes

very carefully

and move it,


very carefully



I am

handing over a stranger’s keys for the second time this day.


I want to remember what song was playing on his radio.

And on mine.

So I can cross reference them and pour my metaphysics

into them when I think of

paths and milliseconds and God.