Ice-gleamed streets, sky an ebony slab,
and a girl accordions her tiny car
into the back of mine.
She, carmine-streamed, head through glass,
removed in a wailing van,
the cops approaching me . . .
and at that moment
as the ambulance speeds away,
as I extract my driver’s license,
my proof of ownership, my insurance card,
beneath my thoughts of the woman,
beneath my earnest face, my trembling hands,
I feel a purr of pride:
The cops must think me substantial,
producing all these documents