I saw the poem
in the rearview mirror.

It flashed
in the nighttime light,
at first as a white wall,
but, then, pursued
as a Ford Econoline van,
flashing out of one dark alleyway,
shifting from left to right,
crossing the streets
then disappearing

with nothing left
but me blinking,
gripping the wheel,
knuckles white,
and grasping.

Don Cadwallader

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