As he rose to open the cherry
cabinet above his desk,
two miles away
his wife's brakes seized,
hurling the blue car
over the snowy embankment.
He could not know her
surprised look
on impact; hear her deep,
charred breathing as she gently
tugged at the seatbelt.
His index finger crossed the spines
of novels he'd read before, kept
in his office for times like this:
a whole hour with no students
to meet; no responsibilities.
He settled comfortably into
his chair and opened a book;
a favorite short story about
a drifter who steals copper wire
from an abandoned home. Hearing
a knock, he closed the book
with a heavy whump, thinking
how he liked that sound;
the finality of it.
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