it.
When it knocked,
I doubted its veracity,
though not with much temerity.
I saw a cyclist down on the pavement tonight;
I slowed down to see what the fuss was,
and there he was, straight like in a coffin,
the officer beside him, calm but shaking,
I idled my engine, but he nodded, and waved me to pass.
And it knocked again,
that friend,
waiting by the window,
in the cold rain.
I recalled my first accident, he hit me in the back,
from the side, causing me to spin.
I remember losing control of the car,
braking, breaking, bracing.
He cared more about the insurance,
and that shocked me; he refused to call the police,
and grinned at his friend, thinking presumably, that
he'd got me.
There it is again,
the black dogs are howling,
lightening screaming, thunder braying,
the trees are prostrating, the deer are fleeing,
the river floods the meadows.
It sits on the tip of the moor,
I can see it, riding atop
a black gelded colt, shotgun in hand;
he is my murderer, and I have
seen him coming.
kitty.