Theology of Road Rage, Sara Clancy

Today we heard his rigorous god
hosts another grief. Beneath the rim
of sweet red metal reads a new grim stare.
We know the blind curve that encouraged his intent
demands a nasty kind of calculation, a redress
of the only thing he had left to lose: the strategy
of insolence we liked to mock to his face.
(Believing anger is as good a safeguard as any
against the polished stone.) We were mistaken
but surprised only by the shock of it.
Years ago, inside the comedy of Cheyenne's
early March, he'd tailgate, weave between lanes and sail
over the frozen pass and down into Laramie at 65.
We laughed that the force that kept his rig
on the road could not possibly be physics,
let alone the grace of any god.