I’m tempted to call the woman, say I did not see her car accident,

but will listen to her version, find out why she needs a witness.

Three telephone poles, three hand-scrawled signs

plead for someone who saw the silver Lexus hit her Honda.

Her signs remain a week. I imagine she vents to family, friends, insurance

reps—the hit and run she’ll replay for years. We all have stories

we can’t part with. Something reminds us, and we spool

them out—like a whiskered mudcat you struggle

to reel in, only to release, follow

its flash through sun-stroked river, its lunge

under roots wedged against a moldered log.