I was driving East to West

On Route 202 late Sunday evening

It was 10:30 at night

Cold and rainy out

With a warm settling fog

 

The fog was low

And covered the street

Crept over the trees hovering over

My pavement path

 

The ground slick with dew and drizzle

My fog lights did nothing

I would just drift the car down the road

Around the curves and bend

Forming to the fog’s tunnel

 

Then out of nowhere

And too late to stop

A man appeared in the middle of the road

A shadowed silhouette

From beneath the tree-covered road path

He stood still

I could not make out his eyes nor face

Too late to stop

I attempted to swerve

The car slipped and slid

Straight into the man

I hit

 

I waited around

For the police to arrive

I went back to the precinct

And talked and questioned

Sweated my palms into the wooden arm chair

Untied my laces and tied again

 

They knew the conditions

And saw the skid marks

Impounded the car

And photographed the thick scene

Wrote me up and wrote me down

Phone calls here and there

As the rain still sunk down

 

The police let me go

But I’m due back there later this month

What will I do

And what will I say?

The fog stood in the way

But no chance for him that night

Perhaps none for me

To hit again

 

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.10.10.23:15:00 @ NJ->NYC