Kelley White
You Were Paul On the Road to Damascus

Only you weren't.  You were going and coming
on the Schuylkill Expressway pulling your new
little antique travel-trailer and then it was shudder
shudder shudder the rack out of control and black
and white and red lights flinging and yellow lines
swimming and way too many cars spin spin spinning
and the little house ripped sitting bent on its side in three
lanes of traffic — this is what you tell me — I can see
your hands gripped to the wheel, taste the stale cigar
smell of the jeep, the last air you breathe, your pulse
drumming a tsunami in your ears, a little brass taste
where you bit your lip, hands already bruising with
the clench.  You're alive.  Perpendicular to Superbowl
weekend traffic. At the junction to Route1, Roosevelt
Boulevard and City Line Ave. But remember, it was Saul,
going, Paul coming back. Or Saul leaving home and Paul
lost his way. Geewhillikers. So now you want to talk
about us.  Us? I say — don't go there.  The articles
of infinity are not saved.  They fall again from heaven
upon us scared beneath.  I don't love you as much
as a dry breath in autumn. As if you'd apologize.
As if you'd say "Dimple-Pie, you make me wanna be
a better person."Yeah, we'll talk about that tomorrow. 
I'll be a hearty listener.  I'll sing the song your grandmother
didn't remember.  Turra lurra.  Police sirens scream
'leave her leave her leave.' Paul hated women.  What
about Saul?