Wynne Morrison

The man who drove the truck
didn’t see the early morning
runner on the side of the road.
Sideswiped him with a side view
mirror, pulled him under.
A wheel
and thirty four thousand pounds
such a definitive demonstration
of how fragile a body can be.

He sits in the cab, shaking,
his heart in a marching army,
aware of this own breathing,
fumbling with the door
to get out and stumble back.

He stops.
A traffic report sputters on the radio.