Braking Distance

The fox didn’t move.

Two green marbles caught in the glass,

while the rotors screamed and the smell of hot steel

filled the vents of the car.

Then he was gone—a red streak back into the pines.

Now I’m in the drive, the engine ticking as it cools.

The hood throws up waves of heat

that make the porch light swim and bend.

I am a heavy weight behind the wheel,

alive because a foot hit a pedal in time.

The debt of it feels like a stone in my throat.