“Move along, folks.
Nothing to see here,”

says the cop
in the long black robe and hoodie,
holding a scythe whose only purpose
is to keep the traffic flowing
after another of those
fated accidents
where someones string runs out
and there was no room
or latitude
or even attitude
to dodge the inevitable, inexorable
Mack-Truck
careening down the street
just as the poor bastard
(the light with him, no less!)
stepped off the curb
into that gleaming grill
and blaring horn,
knocking him into
somewhere else.

“Nope.
Nothing to see here.
No,
I don’t know anything
about him,
Mam.

Sorry.”