to the man in the white honda
I can’t comb the phone book or look online
for your info, our brush so brief and fraught
with drama there was no time for niceties
like names exchanged. I don’t remember
even the color of your hair; I pressed on
my crushed ribs and stared at the cracked
dashboard of your Civic as you drove.
If I could find you, I’d say you surprised me
because no doubt we looked crazy,
my ex-lover and I: on the ground, she kicking
me in the gut again and again while I shielded
my face and tried to get up. People passed
without stopping, maybe amused
by a girl fight, maybe just late for lunch.
I’d say you probably saved me
some stitches or worse by flinging open
your door and yelling, “You need help?”—
distracting her while I stumbled
to your white car. I let you take me
to my house, humiliated and finally finished
battling and embracing a woman broken
by bipolar disorder and heroin.
And I’d say, in case in all these years you worried
even once about my fate or maybe hers—
the ribs healed quickly.