The night he drove his Mustang
into a sycamore,
the same night he learned to limp,
he was, at the least, philosophical,
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.
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.