Coma

Sleet on the turnpike

in the middle of the night 

but I keep driving,

both hands on the wheel,

nowhere to pull off,

and a yellow bus

comes over the line

and kisses my truck.

That's all I remember.

Now I'm in bed,

wired to things,

unable to move,

listening to a doctor 

telling my wife,

"It's been two weeks,

no improvement."

He asks her nicely

if we should let him go,

the dimwit bastard.

If I could, I'd scream 

but I can't even

wiggle my toes.

Donal Mahoney