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Hit and Run

Kurt Luchs

Shit motherfucker you’re murdering me!
I wanted to scream, and did,
but no one was there to hear
nor could they have heard
over the roar of his engine
and the whine of mine,
his 18-wheeler drifting into my VW Rabbit
as he drifted off to sleep,
no warning, no turn signal, no horn
on a rainy and foggy Chicago midnight.
His right front wheels
smashed into my left,
bouncing my car into the overpass guard rail
that had me trapped.

Goddamn motherfucking piece of shit!
I bellowed again and again
as the car twirled and slammed back
into his other wheels,
each one the mouth of a Great White
looking to swallow me whole
or drag me under the behemoth,
tearing off hubcaps and side mirrors
like chunks of silver flesh
too tasty to chew properly,
spinning madly, adding vertigo to terror.

Son of a motherfucking bitch!
I gasped as I hit the guard rail again,
rebounding into the truck wheels once more
and landing behind him in the center lane,
finally stopping at a 45-degree angle,
the radiator already steaming,
the car so totaled I had to crawl
out the back hatch on my hands and knees.
I stood there shaking, lightly whiplashed
but otherwise unhurt
and oh so glad to be alive, car be damned.

That motherfucking bastard of a truck driver
kept going (the cops caught him later)
and I didn’t care one bit
because while the crash was happening
my life had flashed before my eyes
exactly as they say it does,
and it was not a good life,
not even enough to put on a tombstone.
In that instant my spirit
came out of hibernation
wide-eyed and blinking in astonishment.
So began an awakening
that continues to this day,
every morning since then an unbidden gift
from a mysterious stranger whose face
has yet to emerge from the fog
and the never-ending screech
of giant rubber wheels grinding metal.

Kurt Luchs

Kurt Luchs