Alignment

I was reaching for the dial

when the world fell out from under the front left tire.

A sound like a dry bone snapping,

or a pistol fired into a bucket of slush.

Now the steering wheel has a nervous tic.

It shudders in my palms at sixty

like it's trying to tell me something

about the things we don't see coming.

The city marked it with a yellow circle

a week too late to matter.

The paint is already flaking off the wet road

leaving just the mouth of the thing,

hungry and wide.