in that order

the truck stops, a moment too late
a thump, a squeal, in that order
and a life is gone.

not with a snap, but with a gush,
the life runs out.

after the squeal, after the astonished driver
comes out to see if everything is alright
a body lays motionless
a puddle of onlookers forms and
then shatters as a "Let me in!" rings out.

a friend who saw from the window,
who knew one day there'd be a thump and a
squeal,
looks at the driver and says, calmly,
"Not your fault."

there had been other squeals and, once,
another thump.
not as loud. not so final.
"Not your fault," she says again,
this time, not to the driver.

the wail comes in slow motion.
the ambulance appears as if disconnected
then everything happens faster,
faster, faster as if the time that stopped with
the thump
finally restarts, slowly builds up speed and
then, too fast.

the wailing gets softer before the two notice
that the ambulance has left.
the puddle crowd disperses, like water
running off an open palm,
and drips away.

the body is gone.
the puddle of blood remains, as does the
driver and the girl.

both stare at the blood, past the blood, at the
ground.
"Not your fault," the girl says, too softly to be
heard.
"Not my fault," says the driver.

the words hang in the air, no need to say them
again.