Slug

Yet another poem:



Slug


Her Ford Fairmont was precisely positioned
to prevent my right-hand turn.
She could move up a few feet
violating the crosswalk, true-
but pedestrians were non-existent.
She was, out of ignorance
lack of consideration
holding me and my important business up.


Her body was slumped
her empty skull nestled
between the headrest and open window
fingers like whitened leeches
dangled unmoving from a slackened arm
down the side of her door. 


She was a slug
barely conscious
needing to be galvanized by my horn.
My car radio reports a death
a young hockey player, big contract,
suffering from depression, police
do not suspect foul play.


Oh.


Maybe my slug is depressed;
maybe it took a massive effort
just to get into her car.
Happy people don't 
slump like that.
Maybe she lost someone close.
Maybe she was harried for years
by people rushing her
and she shut down inside.
Maybe I should just take my hand
away from the horn and stop
slugging her with my thoughts.