I am certain that when I die
it will be behind the wheel.
Not because of something I did,
but something I did not feel.
A loose cotter pin, a harmonically vibrating rod.
A bearing wearing metal on metal.
A bolt sheared through in last Winter's frost.
A gear one tooth short whose odd metered song
is lost beneath the 8 cylinder chorus and
the timpani's growling at the tail.
With a thump and a clunk
the dominoes will flop,
into oncoming traffic I will go
until the first law yowls "stop!"
My eyes will burst free of their sockets.
My shoes will fly off like rockets.
Over and over, or maybe over and under,
shell, chassis, and plumbing torn in shreds.
One hundred yards up the street,
beyond the last of the glass
my hand will lay
still gripping the shift knob's steel.
Another ten beyond that,
they'll find my head
with a knowing smile:
"I knew I should have double checked that seal."
