every time I drive down madison st., I imagine
    the feeling of flight through the oncoming
   lane, my eggshell-colored jeep diving
    between headlights because I wanted to see
what would happen. probably

             a sound like a copier dropped
from eight stories up, the airbag dust
    coating my lungs, but it’s just
      speculation since I always lose
the nerve. ambulance men would demand

some explanation, like narcolepsy or you
     mean we’re not in britain or sneezing because
curiosity just isn’t a plausible answer
  when accidents happen. I keep going straight
      because I hate having to explain myself