The end of this present life must come, whether sooner or later

He rises from his car, a cane touching first where he will step
and limping step by shuffling step in sneakers crisply tied and white
he joins the crowd around the car -upturned onto its side.

He sees the stop sign now and puts -grandfatherly- his hand upon the car;
it cools as we call to her inside, entombed, blanketed
by airbag and glass.

She unclasps her seatbelt and climbs out, legs wobble, we reach
for her and marvel, we proclaim her miracle,
we resolve to improve our faith, resolve to increase our prayers.

She pales and shakes and sits upon the curb
and stares at the anchors of blood lowered from her hand.
The brush with death sickens us and leaves an acid taste inside our mouths.

But the man, hair still perfectly placed,
returns to the crumpled crib of his car, heart-beating and feeling
-more than he had for many years- alive alive alive.