The 13^th WR

THE ACCIDENT

She told them:
He had to see for himself,
to make sure his daddy's okay.

I shivered in my pajamas,
breath breaking in ashen
jerks against the night.
Steam twisted up for the stars
from blood oozing onto the hood.

The old man babbled:
It happened too fast to stop --
I didn't even see him.
A bubble of air burst
from a flattened nose,
spattering droplets of red.

We'd heard the thud,
then Mamma slipped shoes onto my feet,
a coat around my shoulders.
Your daddy's fine, just fine.
I yawned and stumbled after her
along the dark trail to the roadside arena
where I mingled with nervous whispers
as she pushed in close.

I found him in the shadows, watching her.
He dropped an empty beer bottle
as she stared into milky eyes.
She winced, absently touching her bruised cheek.
Tears shimmered as her trembling fingers
stroked the horse's shattered face.

ONE LAST CARESS

She is watching at the window
as I shed the lawn mower.
She holds a glass of iced tea
in one hand,
a paint brush
in the other --
a job in the bedroom
to be done
under the ether of fresh-cut
grass
sifting in on July's
southern breeze.

When at last today
I brush the final stroke
and shudder with fatigue,
she'll cup my hand against
her breast
for one thing more,
one last caress and
remind me of what I must do
tomorrow.

- C. S Fuqua