As if secrets would spill

Vincent Casaregola

Of course I look, just as you, though neither will admit to it— as if secrets would spill, or some message might appear from the icon of a body stretched silent on the pavement.

We are drawn in, first, by lights that ring the scene like a tragic Christmas wreath in red, blue, yellow and green, making me blink so strong their contrast to the night— a cluster of EMTs still hovers like frightened birds near a broken nest.

I see only the prone form, spread-eagled, art for passers by, an elegy in the making— if I could draw closer, I would, to see a final look in the eyes that might be seeing something “new and strange,” or to hear, a last broken gasp of revelation— but nothing, now or later, but harsh light and cluttered sounds, and customers still passing through the Shell station— nothing, but the stories we may craft from shadows, to be echoed by the morning news—“he died crossing against the light and wearing dark clothing.”

Officers cordon the area with long yellow ribbons of warning, while others measure distances, to solve the calculus of death on a dark street— they, too, can gather only facts, no solace, no insight, no comfort for those who drive past in search of more.