Not a scratch on it. Cars blur,
take the slim country road at 60.
Looks like the left one, pointed west
across the double yellow line, buffed,
brown, gentle oval at the toe. Perhaps
the blessèd shoe of a traveling missionary.
Could be the trail of the newly ex-
wife sprinkling the dregs of her marriage
piece-by-piece out the car window.
Or maybe the police haven’t cleaned
all the accident; what remains
is the one tied
in a double-knot for long
walks to the library, worn
to church to match Granddad’s tweed
suit, the one polished to dress up
for God, one from the last best pair.