Are You Dead Yet?

One moment we're driving
along the mountain highway
telling each other our secret
desires.

(I had to admit mine
was Kraft Dinner
made with tinned milk.)

Then the loud crunch of gravel
and a sharp arc to the right.
We came to a stop between a tree
and a drop off.

I looked over to tell you

you're   an   idiot   driver,
 
and saw you slump like a bag of conkers
over the steering wheel.
 
       Okay
 
so I panicked and forgot
 
to check breathing
 
and

   pulse
      and something else too.

I tried to wake you. I did.
I moaned out your name
 
and slapped your face twice.
 
But you were a goner.

The emergency dispatcher
made it perfectly clear
that I'd done everything
wrong,
 
by leaving you unattended
on the side of the highway

while I asked the young guy
in the truck with the tires

to help

you return
to your body
in the still-running car.

For who else would be left
to drive me back home?

I swung open the door
and there you sat
gleaming, alive.

I'm relieved
that I didn't have to phone
your ex

about your memorial service.

I know that she had first aid

and wouldn't ever have needed
to blurt out apologies

for abandoning you
like a dropped scarf

at the end of confession.