"I can count
on one hand the times
I'd have died.
"The first," she says, "as a toddler,
a two year old struck by a car."
"Another, dropped from a gurney by EMTs, the record showed blunt force trauma, but if you saw the laceration..."
She pulls at her mustache hairs
as she spins each little death,
the white strands of a median line,
a collection of painted scars.
I showed her a few of my dents and bruises
and she pressed her finger into a ditch
just above my shin.
"I started listening to jazz. I see those boys out there driving, getting high, but they don't care."
Someone honks, she curses comfortably
as I rotate my bike pedals, late for work.
She touches my arm and says "You be safe out there,"
as she ambles toward the intersection,
nearly getting clipped.
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