Yesterday's accident in Phoenix reminds me of Corky.

After the crash, he could only move the muscles above his shoulders.
His neck was knotted with tension as he watched The Black Stallion
on the VCR in his room at the nursing home.

George told me this about his son as we stood in my driveway
on a sunny afternoon after the daffodils had already shriveled
and their leaves lay splayed open on the ground.
George was wearing sandals.

Corky and his cousin crashed out on Skyline Boulevard on Christmas Eve. They hadn't seen each other in years. They ate Christmas dinner, then they went out. And crashed.

Corky's new girlfriend was angry. At everyone. She poured gasoline all over the seats and dashboard of George's car and tried to set it on fire. It didn't burn like she'd planned, like a cartoon fire, leaving just a bare frame, the shocks and hubcaps and a body panel or two.

Smoldering upholstery hung on the air around his house.

I think of this because Mark's niece called me this morning
at 7:20
to tell me about the accident near Phoenix 24 hours before.

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