After seven days of rain,
the asphalt looks clean
no smudges of raspberry guts
from trucks that vroom off course
on cloverleaf curves to careen, then stop
dead in the slow lane.
My empty slot, curses a driver up ahead
who tosses trash out the window
then remembers a naked Buddha photo
taped to a taxi cab’s dashboard
and think of praying or cursing cars
that cut me off
and wonder if a plastic Jesus
might protect more?