I Remember Clifford
Rain spatters the cracked windshield;
the wipers, impossibly still working,
say, “Not my fault, not my fault.”
But no one’s listening—
jammed under the steering wheel, Nancy
not Richie riding shotgun, disarmed,
not Clifford crumpled in the backseat.
Oil and blood pool: an odd peace.
Rainwater runs away, escapes
downhill into a flooded stream:
“Not my fault.”
A trumpet locked in the trunk
begins to blow softly, begins to glimmer,
reflecting a light no one can see.
Don Thompson has been writing about the
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