On the last Saturday of August,
an ambulance sirened past Valley Forge.
Your red Toyota was our caboose.
The cyclists who found me, squashed,
waved and went on.

Above me, a clean-shaven man in white smiled. 
He told me I was brave. 

Your electric toothbrush 
vanished from Mom’s medicine cabinet.
My kitsch cast was claustrophobic with sharpie.
The maple trees out my window turned red.
How did the Continental soldiers survive
six months of wind whipped backs?
Were chalk blue fingers
suffering as usual?

Maybe if there was no Days Inn
no road trip  no grasshopper girl
no garden wall     no loose brick     
no tumble               no pavement  
no falling                  no crumple
no left arm,          cracked in two
maybe you    would have stayed.