The ground went hard under your feet.
You were following your nose in the browse.
You heard the humming in the grass all day,
hissing up and drifting away
every day and night
until you never heard it at all.
You came out of the ditch and never looked up,
never felt the slam
of steel, antler and bone,
the rend and tearing roll
of sky and gravel and stone.
You were abruptly rearranged.
Truck tires, sirens, letters from the bank,
a summons, a subpoena, divorce, layoff,
a warrant, the final notice.
The ratcheting around the wrists and ankles.
Papers served, foreclosed, forsaken
You are gasping on a long yellow stripe.
The sun and sky are pressing down on your chest.
You are exploded.
The stain of you on the concrete
seeps into the paperwork
but nobody remembers your name.
The last four digits of your social,
your PIN is not recognized.
You're not welcome, thank you.
You are unconstructed.
You won't be back.
The asphalt is embedded in your shoulder blades.