Standing in the glitter of his death

Just down the road from the peppertree
bus stop, at the blind of the curve,
gleanings from some old man's windshield glint
the road’s shoulder in the sun. Bone shards
of glass shimmer a memorial
to Jimmy Sawyer, grounded to dust
after three days of summer traffic.

I didn't know him. Four or five years
older, he said hi to me sometimes.
Light tan. Dark blonde hair. Warm eyes. Freckles.
We all kinda looked the same. We all
stood at the peppertree. When I'd see
him, I'd think of Finn and my first black friend.


They'd both been going too fast, you know.
The sun distracting and beautiful.
So many curves up Oak Drive. Jimmy.
The guy in the American-made.
So crashes happen every day. But.
He's the first person I sort of knew
who died. Who wasn't anything grand.

So I stand on the spot where his life
crashed away into an old man's lap
after popping up through the warm air.
And try to sense his spirit, like he'd
be waiting. I want him to tell me
he's okay so I can go tell his mom.