Nineteen Seventy Nine

A crumpled car with stains—I don’t want to know with what—parked.  Strange angle.  It does not belong here with smoke  spiraling up in the morning damp.

A head pops up… from.  How did you get here–things can’t be bent that way.  You can’t stop HERE… Twisted, facing the wrong way on the…  Wait.  You’ve crossed the line—yellow.

Other heads–blood there.  Streaming in rivulets and it shouldn’t.  She is there—you saw her but you can’t see her.  Gray hair?  50s? Etched face? Tired? Beaten?  Look of surprise.

This parking lot is a jumble, everyone outside the lines.  And someone is coming.  To complain?

Flashing lights and so calm and no one speaks but everyone is screaming and her chin is bleeding and her foot is… and she looks… in the choir outfit now ruined (you assume).

How did I get on the floor?  What was the last thing I got wrong and what mistake will I make next?

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