The Lost Accident

On a nicely-dull Sunday afternoon for homebodies
out on drives and blue skies,
in yet another day of the festival of life and limb,
sticking to the paved ways,
- too fine for eucharist or sacrifice- yet bottlefed
on incidents, bathed in accidents,
and unweaned off headline violation, cars mouthed
ahead at the gape of open road
and shimmied in the sun, like viewers awaiting
a revelation in any sign of footage.

But ‘The News’ was a long boring highway
swelling with spirit sap of spring
Fast curved-eyes saw panic-starved men mow
lawns, inspect their alarms,
Suspicious that somewhere the intruder must
break-in - of necessity.
Day-tourists held themselves into their bodies'
need to be wrenched in passion,
While down-town at the depot, deputy bloodsweepers
stood by in bright uniforms.

The lone eyewitness burst across the doors of
the old pub on Highway corner
( running out of pedestrian obscurity from the side
streets for a phone!) A phone!
Ready with bloody thumbs and graphics: ‘Ring
Emergency! He's a hospital case!
A biker took the viaduct too fast and come off.
His arm's gone at the elbow!
But a woman motorist stopped to staunch the
blood with her carseat cover!’

Highway Police fishtailed in iridescent flashes
of red and blue - finding nothing.
Towtrucks at high-tug-pull, leadfooted the verges
in U-turns and gravel spurts,
Roaring their V8s in hunger to lay rubber across
the junctions, trying to win
First Prize in the Accident Awards just to be there.
But they found no tow to own,
No mop-up to prize, -like a legacy stolen
from the expectant heirs.

"Where's the accident?" Tow truck drivers called
as did the ravens in the dead pines.
Cop-car cleanskins studded the tar, and Divvy vans
found the same case not there.
"Where's the accident?" The constable husked , as if
it was a conspiratorial secret.
While the ambulance went so close to where the
accident wasn't it never came.
"Where's the accident?" tailpipes of cars spoke
and smoked like rich-n-powerful cigars.

Front-seaters shuffled the turntail-wheel full of
headlights and driving-eyes
Backseat drivers sat upright as they studied the
offroads for any sight to see.
Only odd passengers sniffed, indifferent to less
than could be seen on TV
while Bystanders huddled in a mass, asking about
the accident, cursing a false alarm again
Annoyed that no public mutilation of a good victim
had left them out of the holy-trough again.

Uniformed experts scoured the lanes
trying to pin it down. Gone!. Then let him suffer!
Not a drop of blood to be found.
The pained biker had skipped it, wound and all.
The accident was nowhere. All those observances!
Those duties! Those called felt cheated.
No answer met a human need to be quenched
-which ate bits off lips
like coldsores: saying: "Where's the accident?"
"Where's the accident?" "Where?"

1994 © Wayne David Knoll,
Calder Highway, Malmsbury, Victoria