I would click on the hazard lights.
I would ease to a stop. And if the driver
close behind was on his phone, or watching
the train that raced us on the left,
I would let him crash into me—
so there would be two to stop for you,
to watch you heaving, to argue
what to do at night when there’s no owner,
no neighborhood around—just woods,
and one bright gas station.
Maybe he would have a gun.
Maybe I would have a little more to say.