You feel terror
in your wrists your stomach;
your body
picks the most important places to show
you where it all went wrong:
hands not swift enough,
stomach complaining
doubly now,
the original distraction that allowed fate
to pull you off the road and into
the guard rail instead
of exit 17's rest
stop right as you were saying
"What a flawless trip
it's been."
Jinxes keep us humble,
o ye of abundant faith.
You will be sleeping on the road tonight.
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