Every morning,  it's always the same:
my car skids on black ice,  jumps the curb,
hits a man carrying carnations.   He twists

in the air;  the sky rains pink petals.   As if
they can pass through glass,  my hands stretch
to touch him,  to make promises I can't keep:
tomorrow we won't be on the sidewalk together;
the sanders will be out,  the road dry.   Across town           

at Jimmy's & Son,  the attendant asks,  Wash or
wash'n wax?   What'll it be, lady?   I want him
to check for scratches,  stems,  crushed stamens.