The morning commute

The morning commute,

same street, same cracks.

Then a sudden drop,

a deep-set fault line

I didn't see.

Coffee jumped, a brown wave

splashed on the dash.

A loose coin, silver,

skittered, finding its dark corner.

The sickening lurch.

A wet thud under the wheel.

Looking back, its wide mouth

drank the light,

a brief, dirty pool

in the road's skin.

And the slight tremor

still in my hands.

Just enough

to throw the rhythm.