I am the one you saw writhing on the road that night.
You passed me by without a single crinkle on your forehead.
I was hemorrhaging.
I had injuries.
Few boys who thought speed was fun, had hit me and fled.
Left me without remorse or any knowledge of my death.
Odd things flash when you draw those last weak breaths.
I wish I had that last cup of tea that morning.
I wish I had looked at my home one last time.
But I was on my way to being brain-dead.
When my dazed wife called my son he went a little mad.
(and grew a lot lonely and old in that one moment.)
You didn’t stop, and I didn’t get the chance to tell my grandchildren stories as old as me.
The stories were bleeding out of my head when you passed me by.
I was a teacher. A poor man’s ideal teacher.
You saw me writhing on that road that night.
Actually, all that blood had numbed me and washed away all the memories
and most of my pain.
I didn’t notice the indifference that you showed.
I was quite dead on that road.
But so were you.