5 freeway

sitting shotgun,
I noticed the lot of tread-marks.

so many close calls;
late reactions;
a survival-death microcosm
all in the same boat of shit.

I looked at the
anonymous remnants,
maybe to give them some spark;
I decided—
for the shorter skids,
they probably walked, or limped from,
but the longer ones,
at least a fatality; come on—
it isn’t so arbitrary when
considering the properties of Death:
slow to come; prolonged in struggle;
never as expected
or as it should be.

this sounds so familiar…
maybe the long marks
lived-on after all.