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The shell of the body was gone,
Shattered. I remember the tow truck driver
Prosaically sweeping the shards
out of the busy intersection.

It left an open wound,
Like a bombed-out house with the walls missing.
Everyone gaped at the destruction,
Prurient,
Fascinated by their fascination,
and looked at me in wonder,
as I stood there, whole,
a talisman for luck.

I saw the car at the shop.
The strut was completely detached
the suspension twisted,
and the axel broken,
the wheel bent in half.
A long deep scrape on the driver side
Showed where he plowed past me.

Every day is a gift.
Every day is a gift.

NaPoWriMo 7
Prompt: On gifts or joy

One thought on “Life

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