'Is he dead?'

I saw a semblance of my death,
I woke and watched it, from afar, divorced
from where it happened.
 
Because I was not awake, I missed
the slowing of time, the sprinkling of shards,
the crumpling of car against Canter.
 
I woke up confined, the roof of the car
flattened like a soda can, my car crestfallen,
humbled by the truck of the working man.
 
I woke from what was not a dream,
nudged awake, like the nudge that says,
“you might be late for work”.
 
To stay awake, I drove with windows down,
radio tuned to bracing, I wanted the palm
of the wind on my face, rock music in my ear.
 
I crawled out from the crumpled metal
and stood across the street, stood apart
from the commotion of cars.
 
I watched working people
on their humdrum shuffle to work,
faces eager for the juice of gore and death,
 
they all slowed down, rubbernecking,
trying to peer into the tinted wreckage,
they saw me standing, assumed me witness,
 
one who had just happened by
the scene of the accident, and they asked,
some with words, others with eyes,
 
“is he dead?”
 
My semblance of death was causing
a bottleneck, so I told all who asked,
“yes, he is, move on, please”.
 
A lady driver slowed, stared at my face
as I stood, across the street,
she asked if I needed help.
 
Because she talked to me, I was ghost
no longer, no longer a disembodied
surveying his supposed death.
 
I saw a semblance of my death,
it caused a slight kerfuffle,
a slowing down of traffic, but no,
 
no one got out of their cars,
and the early morning was as bright
as it was sweltering.