Bud Smith writes from Washington Heights in New York City near an open window where he can hear the moon scraping across the tips of surrounding buildings. Visit his website.
Not an Accident
By Bud Smith
real love is a car crash
that you survive
whether the air bags deploy
whether you go through the windshield
whether you explode on impact
that you survive
whether the air bags deploy
whether you go through the windshield
whether you explode on impact
I feel everything stop
and I go out on the pavement
watch the emergency crews
cut the roof of the car off
with a K-10 saw
they peel back the sheet metal
as if it was a can of tuna fish
and they were in the mood for a sandwich
when they look inside
and see us all torn apart
and crushed in odd ways
will it be odd
for them to note
we’re still holding hands?
Bud, both horrific, powerful, and beautiful.
Sharon
Bud, what a gorgeous metaphor. The strenght of your word choices and pacing makes this a poem I will read many times. The last line has such impact. Thank you for this poem!
Very sad, but unique.
This poem is a gruesome and macabre image of enduring love (I like it!) but what I came here to say is Annmarie, it is good to see that even a superstorm cannot still the voice of daily words. Thank you for your perseverance and devotion to poetry for every day.