Ditch

a poem

The sun is a note taped in the sky
and you're thinking about spreadsheets.
You make a hasty pass,
an elk struts on the tarmac ahead,
a squall throws you under a white blanket,
or a sudden wind tackles you—

whatever it was, you hit the brakes—
squinted at, the black ice beneath you
looks almost like pavement.
Your tired treads try to grasp it,
to hold anything against their rubber,
but the cold road turns its shoulder.

Then, the world spinning beneath you:
all you can do is break the snowy fringe,
release the wheel, the gas, the brakes,
let winter throw you to its margins
landing nose-first in the ditch
at the angle of a pencil in a hand.