Wrecking

 

She’s my cherry pie. She’s my cherry pie. Goes to
voice mail. Again, the goddamn phone. She’s my
cherry pie. She’s my cherry pie. She’s my—then, hello.

He sits up, rubs his face, runs his hand over
the top of his briefs. Feels the hair on his chest, his stomach.
His eyes close and he falls back to the bed. A greasy pillow.

His breath. Raw onions. Pumpernickel rye seeds
in teeth. He heaves up, pivots and puts his feet to the floor,
clicks on the TV and stands. Gets dressed, tucks the pant

legs into boots, straps a leather belt around his waist. New hole,
less slack. Unclips the thumb strap, pulls a gun from the holster.

Looks at it. Flips the safety off. Flips the safety on. Flips the safety
off. Flips the safety on. Off and on. Off and on. Off—

Reholsters. Looks in the mirror, wets down a cowlick.
Grabs the keys, drives his cruiser, lit up, to work. To the scene.
Sees flashing lights from far away, looking away makes

things clearer. Semi on its side. Minivan on its side. EMTs
and red trucks. Traffic. He rolls by on the shoulder. Kicks
up dirt. Thinks the glare has never been as bright as now.

He keeps his eyes averted to make it out. Sounds
of injury, delay, curiosity and blame. It’s a planet.
A constellation. A shower of meteors, of anticipation.

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