LAST JOINT
I want to find that joint I stashed three years ago so I can throw it out. I find instead a crumbled clipping from the Defiance, Ohio, police blotter about someone plowing a car through a fence in the park. My Plymouth Satellite. Lucky nobody was making love in moonlit grass or lying alone, staring up into heaven. Lucky I had brushed my teeth and taken out the garbage. Lucky my favorite nightmare was on ice. Lucky somebody kissed my knee twenty years ago, cleaned the wound and sent me on my way. Lucky it wasn’t a Pinto. Lucky I sobered up.
A car radio in the distance switches to static, then some vapid one-hit wonder. My children are climbing the stairs. Lucky the one hit. Lucky the many misses. Lucky, the wonder.
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