My entry for this week's Killer Poetry Contest is a poem about a car crash, shock, and a supernatural (?) encounter! I've been thinking a lot about Patrick and his message over the past couple of days, so it seemed like a good time to post this one again :)

Check out the awesome Killer Poetry Contest, hosted by @rumplestiltskin! Follow the link to enter, read, and support poetry on Steemit: https://steemit.com/killerpoetry/@rumplestiltskin/rumplestiltskin-s-killer-poetry-contest-round-20

https://pixabay.com/en/art-tunnel-passage-leave-light-3183207/

Patrick

So...
that happened.

There was time to scream
But I didn't.
I gazed at the pretty, welcoming lights
Not blinded
Mesmerized
Thinking
I won't be able to stop myself
Drifting into them.

It was like watching a movie
On the big screen:
Larger than life
But smaller
Tailored to fit the mind.

First the jittery fast-mo closeup
Followed in sequence by the strobe light pop of airbags
The choreographed blur of a world just beyond
The sanctuary of the car's metal-and-glass-and-plastic body
Silence
White noise
The squeal of tires
Each sound
Crisp
And distinct
As if mixed to worm its way into ears
And echo inside of heads
More intimately than sounds
IRL.

The fade out.

The cut.

Scene 2:
Try the door.

Never once did I consider death.

Wait.
Am I hurt?
Feel my face
Chest
Arms and legs:
Breath hurts
But not too bad.
Nothing else.

Try the door.

When the shaking starts, it's as if somebody else is doing it for me.

I call friends who live close enough to make it to me, friends I was on my way to visit. They're coming.
Everyone who passes slows down to ask if I'm alright, has anyone called for help?
I'm alright.
Thank God for airbags.
Thank God it wasn't a smaller vehicle
One with a family in it

Children.

I talk with the driver of the tanker truck.
I walk up and down.
A man sees me fiddling with the stuff in my car.
He tells me to sit and relax
He doesn't want me going into shock.
I think:
Wait.
I'm not in shock?
Ok.
I nod to show that I understand
Even though I'm not sure I do.
Whatever it is he's worried about
It sounds bad.
I sit and relax.
I sit and relax.
I sit and relax.
I sit...

I fidget.

I get back up and pace.

Shaking.

A truck pulls over, further along the road, in the dark. A figure climbs out.
It walks up to me, talking.
Is that your car? I nod.
Are you alright? I nod.
Was anyone hurt? I shake my head.
It's a man, dressed in a dark leather vest and a richly colored, puffy shirt
Wearing a kind of top hat
And strange jewelry.
He has shoulder length, loosely curled, silver-grey hair
And a beard to match.
He shakes my hand warmly
As if we already know each other
Asks me my name.
He has an Irish accent.
I tell him.

What's your name? I ask, suddenly finding my tongue.
His eyes catch mine, hold them.
It's Patrick.

I think
Just as Rosie thinks
A day or two later
When I tell them the story
Laughing out loud
When she says it:
YOU MET A LEPRECHAUN!

Still holding my gaze
He gently shakes his head
Well.
He says:

You're lucky.

Now I think I must be in shock.

He tells me that life and health
Are the greatest riches
Material things
Can be replaced
But I can't.

Flashing lights pull over
Further up the road.
His head swings around to look at them.

I think I should go he says.

He gives my arm a squeeze.
An affectionate squeeze.

Then he trots back to his truck
And is gone.

I never see him drive away.

I think:
Leprechauns don't just walk up to you
And hand you their treasure.

And maybe that's true
And maybe it isn't
But what is true is:

When one looks you in the eye
And tells you you're lucky
It wakes you
Like the snap of a hypnotist's fingers.

Even a starless night
Contains rainbows
And at the end of each:
Gold.

©2018 Bennett Italia