The Pick Up

Having watched her check her blind spot,
I'm one sixty
degrees sure
that she's for me.

I prang her a dimple:
light refracting in plumes
around the dent like an iris
in her driver's side door.

All my fault, all of it.
I was not even looking.
And before I know,
I have her phone number

and details. I can tell alot
about a girl by what she says
as she steps from a wreck:
"Where were you?"

I'm here now, my sweet.
A meal to make up for it,
a drink to say sorry.
I know she'll tell the story

of the fella she bumped
into on the Mumbles road;
coincidence is just
one way of squinting

at those flimsy moments
that might pass in a second
if not grabbed like a hand-brake
and held 'til they halt.