Near Miss

Robert Stout

We lurch against each other,
transformed by rain
into lone survivors
whose fingers clutch hard edges
as traffic screeches past,
gravel spatters the axles
and the front seat fills with the smell
of scorched tires and burning brakes.

               Then continue,
slowly, a colt behind us
racing its shadow and the rain
washing our reflections
down separate
window panes.