Trans Am

You go to bed very early,
wounded, unsure how.
Maybe shot in the abdomen,
though still can’t seem to find bullets,
or slammed by a Trans Am
on Russell Street, turning west,
no, perhaps chased down
by a deer pursued by a sound
it does not see. But,
having said that,
there are no Trans Ams anymore.
Regardless, you feel it,
under the night, under
the tree, under the weak lamp
on the street,
a shape parked
under the rotting sheets
of leaves.

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