On My Birthday I Witness a Car Accident and Can’t Help but Call It a Metaphor

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I’m on the corner of the sidewalk and it’s raining,

because of course it must be. For the car

to run the red light, for the darkness of 7 p.m., for the

crunch-splash-shatter combination of the impact,

for the metaphor, it must be. I am on the corner

of the sidewalk, waiting to cross so I can drink beer

and read a book alone, surrounded by strangers

with no interests or stakes in me. I do this often,

reading by myself among the drinking.

Is it gauche to compare the beer taps to rain? The trajectory

of my life to that SUV? The relatively good outcome —

no injuries, no one going too fast, just smashed front ends —

to how I survive despite my best attempts at self-destruction?

If it is, well, I’ve gone and done it, haven’t I?

I’ve put the words down, as if I’m not desperate for you

to tell me it’s ok, to forgive my lack of art here.

I have a confession: I called 911 and crossed the street.

I drank two beers, took a cab to a hotel

where a man I’ve never met told me I was a good boy,

who whispered Happy Birthday when he finished.