Seventy mph with windows open
as friendly NPR reported hope
in Nick -- on death row over thirty years,
a mediator, nurse to disabled prisoners --
while from my left the deep blue dome of night
was closing over orange sunset to my right,
I topped a ridge and in the instant slammed
my brakes. Six lanes of blinking red were jammedas far as I could see. No backing out; too late
to ask my phone to find an alternate.
Between "1999" from a neighboring Mustang
and a Silverado's country twang,
I heard from Nick: This is it. My life. This place.
I choose to be an instrument of peace.
The Mustang wanted to cut. I gave him room.
He smiled, thumb up, eased in, and raised the volume.
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