The night he drove his Mustang

into a sycamore,

the same night he learned to limp,

he was, at the least, philosophical,

almost funny.

Thanked the good lord for the old tree

that kept him from flying off the interstate,

from burning himself up over Judy

and her new pretty boy.

Staggered around,

giggling silly,

dabbing blood from his forehead

with the towel the state trooper gave him,

hobbled around muscled roots,

hands on and off his hips,

puzzling up and down

its hard wisdom.


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