I wear this car like skin, cinched in
by a belt, sure of my place in the stream
of daily traffic, lulled by the sound
of inflated tires on pavement.
To switch lanes is simple.

Until the SUV I didn’t see
fills the space I want to claim.
   So close
      I can almost feel
         two metals sheering.

A gasp, a jerk of the wheel,
and I’m in my own lane
   unscathed,
      quaking, I
         spill images
            of crumpled frames,
               broken bones,
                  and worse.

Pulled over, I sit, my heart
slams my ribs.
   In a world
   of blind spots
   so much depends
   on quick reflexes
   and unearnable luck.

In unrelenting lanes beside me,
the arterial pulses on.

 

Deborrah Corr is the author of the chapbook Naked Rib (Finishing Line Press). A retired kindergarten teacher, she decided to have more fun creating lines of poetry. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies, including, The Penn Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, Booth, McNeese Review, Catamaran and many others