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.
