At a miniature spot on the enormous sphere of the earth,
At a wisp in the panoply of space,
Two machines hurtled toward one another.
The miniscule place is a piece of the highway.
The time is the sunlit warmth of summer.
Into the black macadam of route 34,
on the 21st. day of July,
the mini-van kept its inexorable veer to the left,
while the squealing gargantuan swerved to avoid the meeting.
The noise of the impact shook the houses along the way.
The sound filled his head,
which lurched forward, striking the bloated pillow.
The glass erupted. The metal broke apart and twisted
and pushed down upon him.
The sirens whined. The EMTs ran over. The police lit flares. The “jaws of life pulled and tugged.
The gurney lifted into the ambulance, a screaming soprano, circling red bulbs, passing pulled- over cars, the sliding doors whirred, a call for doctors.
All that, at a tiny place at an isolated time in the array of the universe.
This year, it’s a Tuesday.
What day was it then?