when veronica drove into the back of our ford escort
the sound made the night sky turn white,
all the leaves, newly summered, fell from their trees,
the damp air suffused with gin, scorched rubber, regret
and the moon laid the shore to rest.
inside, children running gleefully around
in a drama of their own, of innocuous cruelty,
in an instant were scattered wildly,
shook to the ground dead
while the adults, savoring wine and
chunks of pineapple and cheddar cheese on cocktail sticks
felt a momentary prick of years gone by,
of bromelain tenderizing mouths.
but i am safe,
having concealed myself behind this emerald-ruby satin,
a floor-length curtain collected in some dusty, forgotten corner of the house,
the taste of rainbow sprinkles and hot tears still on my tongue,
and i wonder
did i create this madness from inside here,
like the wizard of oz
while i was longing to be home?