Crosswalk
by Zu Vincent
It happens just in front of him, three girls
stepping into the crosswalk, oncoming cars, trucks
stopping, waiting as the girls dart out, their trio of legs
arms backpacks coattails flying, their long dark hair
winging back their smiles, laughter, hands reaching
forward, feet light over the white painted safety zone
even as the dull-painted black car comes racing up
on the right, swift as a stereotype objects in the mirror
are closer than they appear, too close, too fast his heart
an anchor drifting into the deep of that one slow, bottomless
moment before the black car lurches sideways brakes
screeching, catching the first girl, the fastest girl, and
casting her up in a terrible perfect arc then down
thunk on the black car’s hood. He’d like to believe
the black car hesitated—just hesitated—before it
threw the girl off and hurtled on.
96