Morning commute, I pull the seat belt around
and clip. Did I notice the charcoal graphite
covering the hood, roof, doors and trunk,
that mixture of gray and tiny bits, paint to
catch the light? I chose this car for the safety
features when my son was born. Bodies are
no match for moving vehicles even at this
speed – 30 mph – along Pacific Coast Highway.
It can happen in the flash of a stop light, the
fragility of a moment, like the winter night
my car slid over black ice, fish tailing into a
full spin, pointing me in the opposite direction.
Alone, fright pumping through me, I
looked up – stunned – into the approaching
headlights. That would never happen here,
I mean the black ice, but facing fatalities,
the shattering glass, the splintering bones...
Here commuters hum with the ocean
rocking on the shore. Here the scent of sea
breeze seems to lap, consistent in praise
of purpose, even if there is no one watching
or noticing the sun’s joy reflected in her sparkle.
Rebecca Ramsden
Rebecca, a retired Registered Nurse, lives in St. Paul, MN. Poetry is soul excavation, the way she finds her inner fire, and gives voice to the complex world. Rebecca's poems have been published in Whitefish Review, Haiku Crush, Tiny Seed, The Dewdrop, This Was 2020, Please See Me, Talking Stick and as winner of the Creekside Poetry contest.