Saturday, September 23, 2017

Thank God She Was Drunk

She stumbled, tumbled into traffic
And the sound was like a building falling
When it hit her square at the shoulder,
Launching her fifty feet up the road.
She got to her feet, wobbled, then
Bent over, as if to vomit it first
Appeared, to collect her things.
I saw her phone in pieces,
Keys in the headlights, her bag
Still joined at one end to its strap;
Inside out, all kinds of private things
From home littered the asphalt—
I was about to check if she was dying, if
I should call her mother, brother, boyfriend,
An ambulance, anyone to take her home,
When the driver jumped from his cab
And sprinted to her side, placed his hand
On her arm, still shaking. You cunt,
She screamed, and took a swipe at his head.
I froze, thinking how alcohol is the juice
Of power, the shield of the untermen,
A god's potion to withstand the brevity
Stretched out by the minute, the hour,
And how this woman will pose a challenge
For the earth to be rid of her. I walked
The driver back to his truck, made sure
He was okay. In the meantime, the word
Cunt sailed off, repeating itself faintly
Like a ship’s horn swallowed by fog.
The crowd that had gathered in witness
Turned from the sea, made their way
Inland, where a stiff drink conquers all
And puts off the pain until morning.