On the last Saturday of August,
an ambulance sirened past Valley Forge.
Your red Toyota was our caboose.
The cyclists who found me, squashed,
waved and went on.
Above me, a clean-shaven man in white smiled.
He told me I was brave.
Your electric toothbrush
vanished from Mom’s medicine cabinet.
My kitsch cast was claustrophobic with sharpie.
The maple trees out my window turned red.
How did the Continental soldiers survive
six months of wind whipped backs?
Were chalk blue fingers
suffering as usual?
Maybe if there was no Days Inn
no road trip no grasshopper girl
no garden wall no loose brick
no tumble no pavement
no falling no crumple
no left arm, cracked in two
maybe you would have stayed.