Sorry if I got it wrong, Honey.

She's napping in my bed
for the last time for a few weeks:
I should be next to her, but I'm not
the tired one for once;
I should be next to her, but I'm tired
of reading books right now;
I should be taking pictures of her
seemingly tiny face, the only exposed part
of her peeking out from under the warmth
of my comforter;
but I'm not.
Instead I'll tell you what I wish I could claim
as my own.

Once upon a time there was a girl...
No.
Five or six years ago, before I knew her
there was a talented teenager
on the varsity swim team
who was deathly afraid of nothing.
She says she was, says she still is
but I know better, can pick a winner
know how to find the genes I lack
even when mine don't fit anymore.
If I remember correctly she set a State record.
I'll have her dig up the paperwork someday.

Anyway, this girl was being bussed down
to a college in Manhattan for a big swim meet
those five or six years ago, before I knew her
when she was stronger than she thought she was
and still is, even while sleeping five feet behind me.
She was on that bus and the bus was on the highway
and the highway was on hiatus because of a five-car pile-up.
(It may have been more, may have been less, but since
it's me telling the story I'll go with five for nothing more
than the sake of the internal rhyme-scheme that she'll like.)
So this traffic jam was pretty bad, and even though I know
she wasn't, I tend to picture her staring out the window
wearing a navy blue bathing suit and swim cap, yellow trim
as if they didn't have locker rooms to change in.
The sun's out and beating down on the stationary bus
and the windows don't open enough to allow proper
ventilation and if you can picture the traffic jam
in the music video for "Everybody Hurts" that'd help me out.

So they're swelterting and crawling along and she's looking
out the window as they pass by the cause of the gridlock.
She instantly regrets letting her eyes wander--
there, in the shoulder of the road, smashed in on one side
is a small, red car with it's windows busted out.
(She didn't tell me the car was red, either
but that's how I picture it, if for nothing else than to provide
contrast for the green skin of the dead man hanging out
of the driver-side window, limp as the spaghetti we made
last night for dinner. And yes, she did tell me he was green.)
It was the first dead person she'd seen, excluding wakes.
She didn't tell me if it was the last, but for argument's sake
let's consider it the one and only corpse she's witnessed.

The bus managed to arrive in time for the swim meet
but it didn't matter much to her anymore.
The image had stuck in her head for the rest of the trip.
She was shaking, well she didn't tell me so, but I know she was.
She told her coach she felt sick and couldn't get in
the water. Coach understood without saying much
and so did her parents. They told her they'd take her
to get something to eat instead, pancakes I believe.
I picture her in the locker room
taking her swimsuit off and getting back into clothes
not because I want to see her naked (well, I do
and if I play my cards right I will again later) but because
I want to go back in time to hold her and tell her
it's OK and that she didn't have anything to prove anyway
and that I'm sorry for being insensitive at times
since I know nothing of death, as she does, despite my dabbling.
(The pancakes probably had whipped cream on them
and her mom and dad didn't say a word when she only ate half.)

The best part is that she'd forgotten it all
until a few weeks ago when I mentioned being stuck
in traffic on that same highway on my way home from work.

So here's another one I stole, this time from my Beloved
as she sleeps innocently in my room
tucked and rolled under the covers
since I've got the AC blasting again.
But this editor Wyatt Mason once said
"good poets borrow, great poets steal"
so it's entirely like whatever, man.
I'm just jealous that my own light
only reaches so far into the darkness;
the rest I can't write about since it'd be a lie
and I save those for my accountant at tax time.
The worst part about only living once
will be not having enough stories
to stall St. Peter with.

Enough of this.
I'm going to go do what I should be doing now.