swaddled in blankets
like baby Jesus,
binge-watching Glee
(unlike baby Jesus)
when Wes asks
to borrow my car,
the maroon one
with the funny
seatbelts. Sure,
I say, why the
hell not?
Mouth stuffed
with chips and dip,
fingers fumble
for the controller:
Hulu is having trouble
playing this title right
now. Stupid Hulu.
Phone vibrates
on faraway end
table. What the hell
does Wes want?
I wonder.
Just minutes before,
(mere blocks away)
metal meets metal,
one car meets
a second, and in
seconds my lazy
Sunday is no more.
Hulu starts up as
my car dies, and while
Rachel melodramatically
sings, Wes' voice
comes in clear.
I wrecked your car,
he says, I'm so sorry.
And I am, too.
Sorry it happened
to him; sorry
it had to be me.
Don't blame yourself,
I want to say,
It could happen to anyone.
But all I manage is
a whispered Jesus
as Hulu pauses again.
No comments:
Post a Comment