Road Rage
My country rear-ended the car in front.
It was texting and didn’t see the brake lights.
The bumper dropped like the top of a mountain.
The other car crumbled like an avalanche.
My country called 9-11.
It’s all my country knows to do.
The officer arrived at the ruined peaks
with an expression as serious as a pine tree.
My country called the car in front
reckless. Impaired. Possibly distracted.
What a scam. It was plain what happened.
Clearer than words on a page or notes in a song.
The cop let my country go
and took his shovel to the snow
as my country looked at its phone
and climbed into the driver’s seat.
My country got home to find
the fascists’ pamphlets already on
its porches and its screens
with an expression as serious as a pine tree.
Never once a mountain but a mound in
wait, empty as a fresh mausoleum.
You can’t see the erosion
when you take your eyes off the road.
Samuel Lorraine Goldsmith (he/him) is a former musician who lives in Richmond, California, with his family. A lawyer by trade, he continues to obey an existential compulsion to write and rewrite poetry and prose. He writes so as to become a river, not a lake. Other than legal trade pieces, Samuel took a break from publishing creative writing since the early 2010s. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in *82 Review, Streetcake Magazine, and others.
The Marbled Sigh 