On a Thursday night,
I drove up on death,
much faster than it crept up on me
Left on the road canal side resulted in sirens,
cars planted in the wrong decision,
and the sight of familiar strangers,
not friends, but more than acquaintances,
crying state side
Right on the second road took me further from you,
and where they pinned you between the sheets,
the sheets of metal and wood that belonged to colonials before it ever belonged to us
You were too young,
much younger than the rings and rungs inside that trunk
and if she could,
she would of hid you in that trunk
and if I could have,
I would have pulled you from the wreckage,
if only,
only to have gone back several hours,
only to have removed those treacherous berries,
if only to tell you how sorry we were,
that this was but a wrinkle in time
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