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I Had to Go to the Bank

Turning the corner I merged
onto the busy boulevard;
over my shoulder,
I notice my son,
already asleep.

I heard sirens
and determined
they came
from the other direction.

I saw the boy then,
his pale legs pulled up,
someone cradled a blanket
under his head.
Not far off,
a blue bike lay
on its side and tangled
in itself.

Fearful, I reverted
and hastily scribed
the sign of the cross.

I thought of my son.

The ambulance flashed by,
the faces of the men inside
like those of other men
in other emergencies,
other times.

I cashed my check and tried to hear
and hold what was human
in the voice that said,
"Have a nice day."
Counted my money,
it was all there.

Turned the corner,
stepped on the gas
remembered I had
to stop by the store.

Passing the corner
I noticed only a cop car remained.
No ambulance.
No twisted bike.
No twisted boy.

I bought something for dinner
and a paper
to read over breakfast tomorrow.

It would contain
stories of airplanes
crashing into heaven
like bullets into sheets of glass,
and of ships,
holes blown in hulls,
water
closing over them.