I don't want to die today,

not like this -

on I-65 with the black exhaust

of Bubba trucks making my blood congeal

on asphalt seamed with tar and white paint.

If I'm going to die,

let it be somewhere green

while a soft breeze turns the pages of my

last moments;

let it by while I'm holding my dog and whispering

my final words into his ear.

I want to say this to the cars drag-racing their

way to work this morning.

"I don't want to die here on an interstate of strangers."

But, they don't listen, even when I blare my horn

as one of them cuts me off and I miss clipping his

bumper by mere kisses of space.