Glass in the Trees

Find out,

Find this out.

For there’s little left to sing about, because of what we found.

Where we fell apart. The road. The glass and the crying. The smell of brakes, the heat of oil fire.

And we looked, our heads were cocked to the side. We put our hands over our mouths.

How did this happen? Where were the people?

A small red SUV on its back, airbags deflated.

Not a window wasn’t open.  Every window was broken. No passengers were there to speak of.

The car’s radio was on, playing quiet a country song as it cut in and out, soft static in between slide guitar.

You see, the smoke still scratches at my eyes.

I know the pavement’s still warm from the tires.

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