—IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO SHOOT OUT THE MOON         

 

 

Nobody’s Fault

 

My old friend 

turns the corner   sharp

   after 

killing someone—

he doesn’t know who. 

There’s wreckage in 

the rearview     again, 

an untidy fog.

Somewhere 

on the floormats, 

a bottle skitters around 

like an off-kilter pulse, 

and reaching for it, 

my old friend hits 

the gas by accident— 

nobody’s fault. 

It’s so easy to get 

distracted when things 

that matter 

butt up against those 

that don’t.

I try telling that 

to this new officer, 

slurring maybe, 

patting the air behind me 

where my old friend 

used to hang, 

a trail of vapors 

looking back at me 

cross-eyed instead.