Back curved like a scythe, in your four wheel drive,
Staring at me emptily, through coke bottle glasses,
peaking above the window lip, as you cut me off.
No remorse. No regret.
Your bald, age spotted head, does not appear above the head rest,
Your frail hands grip the wheel, loosely, but your knuckles show white.
You are a heart attack waiting to happen. You smell of fear.
And sweat. And urine. I ride the horn.
Wisps of steam escape the crumpled bonnet,
Climb the telegraph pole. Something dark leaks underneath.
You fumble your way out, fall to the ground, tangled in your seat belt.
Clutching your chest. Eyes screaming for help.
You claw at the air. You look to me.
I do not touch you. I call the paramedics.
You get your last words, and your death rattle.
I do not listen. I hear the Dopplered siren.
I watch you die.
No regret. No remorse.