Hit

These things always seem to happen in slow motion, don’t they? How the man across the street did not register in your conscious until the car hit him right in the side, lifted him down first street, an array of confused or shocked faces lining the sidewalk. How a day of balloons and birthdays drop from out the soles of your feet and later on the subway you only know how tired you are. He says I saw you get on the subway in my neighborhood this morning, and you don’t know what the Universe is playing at. Perhaps the game is not for you, perhaps you are but a pawn, a disposable plaything to fill a moment of boredom. You give the police officer your phone number, go on your way, leave the borough.

Wait for the city to wash words back into your chest again.