Inches

The sedan didn’t hit, but it came far too close.

The cyclist just stared like he’d seen a real ghost.

The rubber left lines on the asphalt like ink,

it only takes half of a second to blink.

I’m standing here holding my breath in my chest,

a passenger feeling like some kind of guest.

The skid marks are black and they end at the drain,

two inches of grace in a world full of pain.