—MAYBE I DON’T KNOW

 

 

Devil’s Elbow

 

The curve hooked sharp, meaning you had to take it slow, though strangers didn’t know and often ended up ass-over-tea-kettle, mangled steel steaming against the skirts of ancient evergreens near where my son drove one winter after having punched a fist through the wall, a trivial event of familial history were it not for the sole time I failed to say, “Drive careful,” where if I’d said it I still would have deliberately left off “Son,” due to my pride and fury, though now at night, in dreams or awake, that’s all I say, Son, Son, Son.