Thrown.(Poem)

 
Thrown 
 
   I've only started stabbing at the snow 
   That chokes my driveway when I hear the rumble 
   Of the pickup: it comes around the corner 
   From the hidden end of this dead-end street. 
 
   Its wub-wub-wub-wub seems a kind of mutter, 
   As if the truck is mulling over what risk 
   This road is paved with. Trying to ignore 
   The noise, I thrust at the frozen hide that crusts 
 
   My blacktop. No matter how hard I lunge, 
   This spade--made for turning earth in summer-Bites 
   only little moon-slices from the ice. 
   The truck rolls forward lazy as the flakes 
 
   Shivering down. BLAH DA-DA-DA! it bellows, 
   A wad of exhaust black as diesel hawked 
   At the cold, the notched edges of its tires 
   Blurring as they whine for grip. I hear the squeals 
 
   Of a boy, though the driver's alone in the cab. 
   When the truck zooms by, I see a kid on a sled 
   Tethered to the back bumper. His yells 
   Echo against my house as he just misses 
 
   My mailbox by maybe the length of a hand. 
   Snow sprays as his father spins the pickup 
   Into a cul-de-sac across from me, 
   The sled swinging like a pendulum. 
 
   I tell myself that I should do something: 
   Shout at the driver blinded by the blizzard 
   He swirls around himself; or call the cops. 
   The pickup slide-skids the arc of the circle, 
 
   The sled whipping across the buried borders 
   Of the neighbors' lawns. The rear tires steam 
   As if melting. The driver blasts his air-horn, 
   And the wheels scream when he charges back 
 
   Toward the dead-end. The sled is empty now, 
   Flipping on its line. A different shriek 
   From the cul-de-sac makes me turn: 
   The thrown boy is standing washed in blood. 
 
   Holding ...