Like a bus
that couldn’t stop,
its driver, legs locked-
straight, baring down-
all the weight,
the failing of brakes;
beneath his feet,
where the tires
touch street
screeching, scraping
metal shavings
but can’t quite stop
in time not to
run right over me.
The Sledgehammer swings,
it’s wielder, well-meaning-
momentous force-
impact to the chest
sets into course,
broken by the best
of darkness creeping
in through
my own big mouth.